Phantasm
by neonchica
Summary: Here by popular demand. Sequel to Weston House. Dean wakes up in the hospital to find that the life he’s known has all just been a dream. ...or has it? Note: You don’t have to read WH to understand this one, but I will use thoughts and ideas from it.
1. Chapter 1

_Yeah, sooooo, I kinda bluffed. I had every intention of writing a sequel to Weston House. Most of you probably already had that figured out, but in case you didn't - yes, I'm writing another story. This is it. This goes in a whole different direction, which is why I'm starting a new story instead of adding to the old one. For those of you who are new to this story, you might want to read Weston House first in order to fully understand what's going on. You can read this as stand alone if you so choose, but some stuff will make more sense if you read that story first. This is actually the last chapter of that story (as well as the first of this one). I know this got some mixed reviews from people, but stick with me. I guarantee you'll be substantially rewarded at the end. Anyway, here's the beginning..._

"Nooooo! Sammmmmmeeeeeeeeee!" Dean's eyes shot open wide in panic. His lungs burned with desperation as he tried unsuccessfully to pull in air. Sweat poured down his face and his body trembled with fear. Hyperventilation took effect. Greyish spots danced mockingly in front of his eyes. The images hung fresh in his mind; fighting the brain creature, Sam being thrown across the room, Sam in a wheelchair, Sam fighting every day to regain use of his legs, and then succeeding only to be killed by that damn Devils Elbow destroyer. His little brother was dead. He'd failed him.

But then he heard it. That voice. "Dean. It's OK. Calm down. You're OK. You're fine." The voice wasn't real. It couldn't be real. Sam was dead. He'd died in Dean's arms. Dean looked up as Sam's concerned face loomed over him. This was a dream. It had to be a dream. "Dean, I'm here. It's me. It's Sam. Breathe. You have to breathe."

"S– S...am?" Dean's voice quavered, barely able to form the single word. He blinked in rapid succession. His eyes just wouldn't' focus. It couldn't be Sam. It had to be a trick. "But you...you died. You're gone. I watched you d– die. I held you i– in my arms."

Confusion joined concern in Sam's face as he stared into his older brother's eyes. "Dean, what are you talking about? Nothing happened to me. I've been here ever since Mom called me."

"M...om?" _What? Mom called Sam? But how? When? _"Sam, you're confused. Mom's not here. She died too." _Wait, maybe that's it. Am I dead too? Is this heaven? Or...or hell? That's it. That has to be it. I'm dead. OK. I can deal with this. Now that I know, I can handle this._

Dean heard a door open and more footsteps rushed in. Another familiar voice asked anxiously, "He woke up?" _He knew that voice, too. It was that prick who'd convinced them that Sam would never get better. But Sammy'd shown him. Sammy walked again._

"Yes, Dr. Reynolds. Just a couple minutes ago. But he's not coherent. He's just rambling. Talking about his brother and me being...dead." _What the hell is going on! _Dean hadn't heard that voice in 22 years. But it rang loud and clear in his mind as though he'd heard it just minutes ago. That soft, gentle voice that always made everything alright. His mother's voice. _This isn't possible. This can't be happening._

A light was beamed into Dean's eyes as he connected the familiar voice with the familiar face now looking down on him with worry. _Yup, definitely him. Right down to that cocky, know-it-all grin._ "It's probably a result of the morphine," the doctor explained to the rest of the room. "It can induce some very weird dreams."

_Dreams! This isn't a dream. It was real_. _The ghosts and the demons and Mom and ...Sam. The whole thing was real. I was there. I should know._

"Just keep reassuring him that he's alright. Take things slow." The doctor disappeared from Dean's sight and was replaced by another face. It looked like his mother. And sounded like his mother. But it wasn't his mother. Couldn't be. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to become her, but they had failed miserably. He knew her face. Knew every dimple and crease and freckle. He saw her face in his dreams, that same face he'd seen when he was a kid. The face in front of him had similar features, but this one had aged. This one was in its early fifties. There were wrinkles around the corners of her eyes and streaks of grey in her hair.

"Dean, honey, you need to focus. It's mom. Look at me. I'm _right_ here. I'm OK. And Sam's OK." Sam reappeared in Dean's line of vision too. And then another face.

"Dad? You're here too?" _But how can Dad be here? Dad's not dead. MIA, maybe, but certainly not dead. At least not the last I knew. _

"Of course I'm here, son. Where else would I be?" Warm. His father's voice was warm, ...and caring. He hadn't heard those emotions in his father in years. It had always been orders, demands, anger.

"But..." _This is all too weird. This doesn't make any sense. How can they all be– _

"Dean, do you remember anything that happened?" Sam was talking again.

Rolling his eyes at the ghosts of his family, Dean nodded his head. "Of course I remember what happened. I remember all of it. What I don't understand is how you can be here. You shouldn't be here."

"It's alright," Sam assured him. "My classes can wait. There will always be other semesters. But you, big brother, well there's only one of you. I'll stay here as long as you need me."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Questions swam through Dean's head demanding answers. "Classes? What classes? You haven't been in school in months!"

"It's been less than two months," Sam answered defensively, still looking at his brother with curiosity. "You've been in a coma for six and a half weeks."

"A coma!" Dean's eyes bugged out, hyperventilation threatening to attack again. "No. You're wrong. That's not possible. I– "

His mother's gentle voice interrupted him again. "Sweetie, you and a couple of your friends were in a car accident on the way home from a football game."

Humor played across Dean's face, as he searched for the cameras. He could feel himself fighting hysterics, as he contemplated the crap these people were feeding him. _What the hell are they talking about? Friends? No. I don't have friends. I've never had time for friends. And a _football game?_ Me? Never in my life have I been to a football game. I don't even know how the hell the game is played. If morphine is to blame then this is the result. Whatever the hell this is, it must be a dream. I have to escape. I've got to get out of this nightmare! "_Ineed to get out of here. This is just too weird. I don't know who you people are, but you're not my family. This isn't my life. I need to go." Dean pulled the covers off roughly and attempted to sit up, but was stopped by a firm hand on each of his shoulders.

"I'm afraid you won't be going anywhere just yet, son." His father's voice had become firm, but pain and sorrow laced itself in there, too.

"Just let me go!" Dean growled. "This isn't right. Something's not right!"

"That's the first thing you've gotten correct all day," Sam agreed, sorrowful. "Something's definitely not right. Dean, you got hurt in the accident. More than just your head."

"Sam, save it for later. He's not thinking straight right now. You'll only upset him more." There she was, talking again. Her kindness and concern the same as it had always been. But Mary Winchester's charm hadn't effected the Winchester men in years. Her kind nature had long ago ceased to exist within their own demeanor's. And sugar coating situations hadn't been an option for years.

"Just tell me what's happened to me. Tell me what's wrong." Dean smirked, amusement plastered all over his face. _This should be good. Whoever these people are...whatever these people are, they are really playing this thing up. It's like they truly believe what they're saying to me. What the hell kind of demons are these?_

John Winchester, or rather - as Dean believed - the demon disguised as John Winchester,

leaned over his son, his face contorted with despair. Son, I don't know how to tell you this. I never wanted– you have to understand that I would do anything to take this pain from you–"

"Just say it!" Dean snapped at the figures. The suspense was killing him. This dream was too surreal.

"Dean...you're paralyzed."


	2. Chapter 2

_I do not own the Winchester boys or their parents. I think I own all the other characters._

Just say it!" Dean snapped at the figures. The suspense was killing him. This dream was too surreal.

"Dean...you're paralyzed."

Dean laughed, his eyes jumping from one face to the next as he waited to see who would be the first to crack a smile. But their faces remained stoic, expressions unwavering. They weren't laughing.

Dean's smile faded, his face going completely blank. _No, this is wrong. It was Sam. Sam was paralyzed; not me. But Sammy got better. He walked. He was healed. But then he– No. This doesn't make any sense!_

The woman, his mother, reached her hand out to him first, laying it tenderly on his shoulder. Dean flinched. "You don't get to touch me," he hissed, resting his steely gaze on her. "I don't know who you are."

She couldn't hide the fact that his words had hurt her, but she wasn't about to let it stop her from getting through to her oldest son. Her hand remained steady on his shoulder, despite the fact that she was shaking inside. "Dean, I'm your mother," she insisted firmly. "Look at me. I know you recognize me. You have to recognize me."

Dean shook his head, steadfast in his knowledge. "My mother died when I was four. You're not my mother."

Tears filled the woman's eyes, and she found herself unable to hold them back any longer. Her husband stepped forward, pulling her to him and allowing her to cry openly into his chest. Her body convulsed as she shed tears of grief. "He's back, but he's not...back," she sobbed, voice muffled.

"It's alright," the man soothed, smoothing his hands down her hair. "It's going to be alright." He led her to the door, glancing to his younger son for confirmation. Sam nodded, the one move telling the man he would be alright if they left.

Dean watched the couple leave, relief washing over his features as the door clicked shut. If it was just Sam, maybe he could get some real answers. Facing his brother sternly, Dean spoke. "What's going on, Sammy? Who are those people? What do they want from us?"

Laughter played at the eyes of the younger brother. "You haven't called me Sammy since we were kids," he answered, pulling up a chair beside his brother. "What brought that on?"

Mild confusion registered in Dean. "I've always called you Sammy. Just yesterday when we–" He stopped, realizing how insane that would sound. _Yesterday. Yesterday he was supposed to be deep in a coma._ _But that wasn't what actually happened yesterday, was it? Yesterday, he remembered, they were on their last leg of the road trip, on the way to Devils Elbow, Missouri._

Sam cocked his head, raising an eyebrow. "Yesterday what?" he prodded. "What happened yesterday?"

Turning his head away, Dean went quiet. Even he knew how crazy this whole thing sounded. But it just didn't make sense. _And I'm not the crazy one, am I? They were dead. Mom and Sam died. I watched it happen. I held Sam in my arms; both times!_

"Dean! What happened yesterday?" Sam demanded, jerking at his brother's shoulder so he would look at him.

Dean shook his head as he fought back a set of tears that threatened to shed themselves any second. _Hold it strong, Dean. This isn't the time._ "Forget it, Sam. Just forget it."

"What the hell is going on with you, Dean? Do you have any idea how much that hurt her feelings?"

"She's not my mother," Dean repeated, his voice level. "My mother died 22 years ago."

"No she didn't!" Sam snapped, exasperated. "She's very much alive and right now she's bawling out there in the hallway because her oldest son is being a jackass. What is with you and thinking everybody's dead? Talk to me, Dean."

"You wouldn't believe me even if I did talk to you," came the cursory reply as Dean, once again, turned his head away from the specter of his younger brother.

Instead of demanding that Dean look at him, Sam circled the bed to where Dean now faced and crouched to his eye level again. "Try me," he pleaded, shooting Dean that same puppy dog gaze that was never denied.

Dean relented, ignoring the tiny voice in his head as it began screaming at him to shut up, not to spill his guts to someone, or something, that he couldn't identify or explain. But that expression always got Sam what he wanted from his older brother, and this time would be no exception. Dean took a deep breath, holding it for a long time before he released it. "Mom was killed by a demon. You were just a baby, and it happened right over your crib. On the ceiling. Ever since then Dad had this vendetta for all things supernatural, especially the one that killed mom." Even as he said it, Dean began to doubt himself. _Maybe it was just a dream; just the morphine. But it seemed so real. I have so many details. Everything is so well put together. But..._

Sam remained still, never breaking eye contact, never blinking. He refused to allow the doubts and questions running through his mind to surface on his face. Dean needed to know he could trust him, and if that meant listening to the rambles of a mad man then he was going to do just that. For twenty minutes Dean went on and on about all the creatures they had encountered. Ghosts, demons, witches. According to Dean they were fluent in exorcism rituals, and potions, spells, chants. All things that went along with supernatural encounters, and Dean rattled them off as though he were reciting a grocery list. Sam listened patiently, ingesting every detail of his brother's convoluted story. He got the impression that Dean could have easily continued his stories for hours, but they were eventually interrupted by one of the nurses who had been caring from Dean since he'd arrived in the hospital.

She peeked her head in, speaking softly as she entered the room. "Knock knock, mind if I come in? I heard Rip Van Winkle finally decided to grace us with his presence."

Dean had stopped speaking the minute he'd heard the door open, and now he rolled his head across the pillow to get a good look at the intruder, ready to slap her with one of his trademark insults. But he stopped mid breath, his eyes growing wide in disbelief. "Laura?"

The young brunette nurse turned to him, surprised. "Yes, that's my name," she replied. "I'm one of your nurses. How on earth did you know my name?"

Dean stammered. "You and I... I mean, we knew..." he stopped, noticing her obvious confusion. _What is she doing here? How do I explain to her how we know each other. How do I explain it to myself? What the hell is going on here? _"I guess I just must have heard your name while I was...unconscious," Dean finally answered, deciding it best to just brush off the explanation for the time being.

Laura smiled, visibly relaxing. She'd already heard about his earlier conversation with his parents, and the fact that he already knew her name just minutes after waking from a coma had made her a bit uneasy. "How are you feeling?" Stepping forward, she began a visual analysis of her patient, noting his vitals and making notes on the chart. "Are you in any pain?"

Male instinct told Dean he should be fluffing himself, and he braced his arms as he tried to sit. That's when he remembered why he was in the bed in the first place. He'd glossed over the announcement of his paralysis, defining it as lies from the stand ins claiming to be his parents. But it was becoming all too real as Dean tried in vain to make the limbs move. They refused to cooperate.

Fear encompassed him, realizations swarmed around. _Was this how Sam had felt? Did he feel so helpless? _Wide eyes locked onto Sam's, desperate for help. "My legs," he whispered pleadingly. "I can't feel my legs."

Sam nodded sadly, confirming what Dean had just admitted. "That's what we were trying to tell you, Dean. You were in a car accident. You were paralyzed."

"No, that's not right, Sam. It's not me. It was you. You were paralyzed - in a fight with a demon. But then you got better. You fought and got better." Dean stared hard at his brother, insistent. He had to make the boy understand the situation, the _real _situation.

Instead of responding, Sam's eyes shot to the nurse who had stood silent through the exchange. "He's been like this ever since he woke up. It's like he's been living in another world."

She nodded, worry lines etched in her face. "I think maybe we should give him another sedative for now. Dr. Reynolds has a standing order for sedatives every four hours as needed." Reaching to the cart she'd brought with her, Laura opened a syringe and selected one of several bottles of medicine, drawing out the recommended dosage.

"I don't need a sedative!" Dean protested, flailing wildly as she neared him with the filled syringe. "I'm not crazy, Sam. I'm not crazy!" His voice took on a desperate tone as Sam leaned over him, strong hands holding Dean's arms at his sides, lips tight. "Please, Sammy. You have to believe me. I'm not crazy. I'm not crazy. I'm not cra–" Dean's voice faded to silence as the fast working sedative took effect.

With shaking hands, Sam released his bother's now limp body and righted himself. "What do you make of that?" he asked of Laura. "He doesn't know us. Or, at least, not the us that he's seeing. It's like he reinvented our whole family in his mind."

Laura shrugged apologetically. "I don't know. It is weird. I'll give you that. If I were you I'd ask Dr. Reynolds to get a psych consult on him. Whatever this is, you need to stop it before it escalates."

Sam nodded vaguely, already deep in thought as he debated on a solution. "Thanks. I'll tell my parents about your suggestion. We'll talk about it." He left the room, shaking his head roughly to clear the confusion.

They hadn't gone far; just down the hall to the waiting room. Sam's heart ached when he saw his mother leaning heavily against his father, her cheeks stained with tears and her eyes and nose red. He paused, composing himself before approaching his parents, sitting in a seat across from them and resting his elbows on his knees. Sam sighed. "They gave him something to help him sleep."

His mother nodded slowly, still desperate to understand what was happening to her oldest son. "What did he say to you?"

Sam shrugged. He didn't know where the feeling came from, but something told him to keep his mouth shut. Instinct told him Dean had only told him what he did because he trusted him. There was something weird going on, but until he had more facts Sam wasn't about to chalk it up to insanity. They needed to talk more later. "He didn't really say anything important. I think he's still delirious from the drugs. Give him some time, Mom. He'll come around." Sam leaned over and patted his mother's knee for reassurance, flashing her his megawatt smile as an added bonus.

"He'll be out for a while then?" John Winchester asked his son.

Sam nodded. "Few hours at least. I need to get out of here. Clear my head." _What I need to do is go somewhere to think where I can be alone. I need to figure this out before Dean wakes up again._

His parents both shot him understanding smiles, slight nods accepting his need to leave. "I think we're going to get some lunch from the cafeteria," his father added, collecting his wife as he stood. "We'll meet you back here in a while."

Sam left, making a beeline directly to the elevators and punching the button to the main floor repeatedly. It couldn't get there fast enough. He ignored the odd glances the others in the elevator gave him as he jumped in place, trying to ease his anxiety. When the it finally landed at its destination Sam sprinted from the elevator, his long legs making fast tracks to the parking lot and his car. _What the hell am I supposed to do? Who am I supposed to talk to about this? Has my brother really gone crazy? Dean's always been so level headed, what if he's not making this up? God, what am I even saying? Demons? Ghosts?_ _Am I seriously considering the possibility that there's any truth to this? _As Sam drove aimlessly through town he replayed the conversation he'd had with Dean over and over in his head, agonizing over the validity of it. Dean had seemed so totally sane as he told Sam about his 'other' life. Their 'other' life. _But what if he is telling the truth? That life seems so empty. Why would he even want to go back there? What the hell am I saying! There is no other life. _This _is our life. _

Sam finally parked the car in front of their house, one lone tear sliding down his face as he thought about Dean. And he hadn't even heard the worst of the news. Not all of his friends had made it out of the wrecked car alive; one had died. But then, maybe he wouldn't even care. Maybe he wouldn't even know who the other boys were. Sam sprinted into the house, his mind set on the mission at hand. As he collected the various pictures and souvenirs and artifacts he smiled. If these didn't help Dean remember his life, he didn't know what would.


	3. Chapter 3

**I do not own Dean or Sam or their parents,but the other characters and the idea itself are mine...all mine. **

_Hi guys! Wow, the response is overwhelming. I'm so glad you guys are enjoying this story. I also want to add that I will be sure to take into account any questions you guys may ask and try to incorporate them in the story. I have been known to leave out key points, so keep those questions coming so I can be sure toaddress any holes in the story. You guys rock! Enjoy the next installment._

Sam didn't ever remember lying to his parents before. Sure, there had been the little white lies; things like _Yes, Mom, I did eat all my broccoli,_ and _Sure, Dad, I filled the gas tank._ But when it came to the hard core lies, Sam had never been that good at it. So he wasn't at all surprised that his hands were shaking and he was perspiring more than usual as he snuck back into Dean's room with the duffle bag full of stuff. It wasn't that he didn't want his parents to know that he'd brought it, he just didn't want them around when he presented it to Dean. He was still afraid of Dean's reactions, and his mother couldn't handle any more disappointments at the moment. So he'd snuck onto the floor, stealthily peeking into Dean's room before slipping through the door, unnoticed by his parents who were just getting off the elevator. Before they could walk through the door, Sam stashed the bag in the lowest dresser drawer, determined not to bring it out until after his parents had left for the night.

Dean woke up soon after they returned, staring blankly at the three expectant faces that hovered over him. "Dean, baby, how are you feeling?" Mary implored, her voice hopeful.

Blinking against the florescent lights, Dean stared at her. "I'm fine," he said, coldly. "I want to get out of here."

For a minute, Dean felt a pang of guilt as he watched her face fall at his tone. This woman had definitely aged, but she still resembled his mother. _Maybe I should go easier on her; at least until I can figure out what the hell is going on here. I may have to rely on these people for a while. _Dean tried to smile at her, but his uncertainty of the situation made it appear more of a grimace. "I'm sorry," he tried again, voice still flat, but at least the intentions were there. "I'm just having a hard time wrapping my head around all this." _Well that much was true at least. Just not for the same reasons they were thinking._

"Son, I know this has to be hard on you," John soothed, assuming he knew the reason's for his sons anxiety. "I'm sure it's a shock to wake up and find out. But we're going to be here with you. Your mother and I will be by your side through this whole thing. You've got your family behind you. We'll talk to all the best doctors and specialists. We'll get through this – as a family."

Dean had to fight back the smirk that threatened to plaster itself to his face. _Family. Ha. I don't have a family. I have myself...and Sam. Maybe Sam. And right now I don't give a flying shit about my legs. I'll deal with that later. Right now I need to deal with what the hell is going on, and where the hell I am. _

Dean's lack of response hadn't gone unnoticed, and Mary was desperate to get his response. "Honey, did you hear your father?"

"Yeah, I heard him. I appreciate what you said." Dean hesitated. _Why and I so damn concerned with their feelings? "_Would you mind if I had a minute alone with Sam, please?"

Mary nodded willingly, relieved at the fact that Dean hadn't disowned her again. She would have done absolutely anything for him just because of that one little fact. "Of course, honey. As a matter of fact, I think your father and I will give you two the rest of the night to talk. This has been a rough day for all of us. We'll be back in the morning."

"Alright." She leant over him, planting a gentle kiss on his forehead. Dean made a conscious effort not to flinch at her touch. "I guess I'll see you guys tomorrow then."

The brother's watched their parents leave, and then awkward silence flooded the room. Suddenly the monitors above Dean's head had become very interesting to Sam, and Dean was paying an equally great amount of attention to the call button on the bed. Dean finally spoke, abruptly. "What did you bring with you?"

"Huh?" Sam glanced at his brother, startled.

"You heard me," Dean insisted. "The duffle bag you snuck in here earlier...when you thought I was asleep. What's in it?"

"Oh, that," Sam dead panned. "It's nothing. Just, uh...some stuff I thought you might like to see."

Dean pressed on. "Such as?"

Looking down at his feet, Sam mumbled his response. "You just...you didn't seem to know who we were. You didn't seem to remember your life. So I um, I brought some stuff to help you remember."

There were buttons on the side rail of the bed that served to adjust its position, and Dean selected one of these buttons now, raising the head of the bed so he could see better. _This oughta be good._ He'd already tried to convince Sam that he didn't remember this life because it wasn't his life. What more was he supposed to say. _What the hell. Might as well look at them. _"Sam, I don't think this is going to help," he warned. "But you can give it a try. Lemme see."

Sam sucked in a deep breath, letting it out in a quick huff before retrieving the bag from the drawer and throwing it on the bed between Deans legs. Dean allowed himself a fleeting thought that he hadn't felt the bag land, but he didn't let it stick. If this was a dream then he wouldn't have to worry about being paralyzed when he woke up. This would all be over soon enough.

The zipper echoed loudly as Sam opened the bag and began pulling out the stuff he'd collected as Dean watched, intrigued. _So this is my life. My supposed life. _The first item Sam handed him as a framed portrait of the family, taken at Christmas. The mother wore a red and silver velvet dress, the father wore a dark brown suit jacket and green shirt, and both boys wore sweaters, each in a different shade of blue. Dean stared at it for several minutes, searching for any sign of it being doctored. He could find none, every last detail was perfect. "Was this taken this year?"

Sam gave his confirmation. "Last Christmas. It's almost been a year. You know it's November now."

Shaking his head in confusion Dean eyed Sam curiously. "No it's not...It's March. It was..." He stopped again, noting the troubled expression on Sam's face. _This isn't working. How am I supposed to figure a way out of here if I can't even get out of bed? And Sammy isn't going to be any help if I can't get him to understand._

Taking the picture from Dean's hands Sam felt a lump form in his throat. _What the hell is wrong with him? How am I going to help him if I can't even convince him of the date? God, this stuff has to work. It has to get through to him. _Sam reached back into the duffle bag and pulled out the next item, hoping it would have better luck than the next. It was another picture, this one of Dean and several friends wearing university t-shirts, sunglasses, and each with a beer in hand. "You were tail-gaiting at a football game here. That's you, of course, and then a bunch of your frat brothers. That's Tim, and–"

This time Dean couldn't suppress his laughter as he practically spit on Sam in his effort to hold it in. "Now I know this is a dream," Dean laughed. "You're telling me that I not only _went_ to football games, but that I was also in a fraternity? _Me? A _frat_" Not to mention the simple fact that I went to college, period. This is fucked up._

Sam stared back at Dean completely serious. "You were on the soccer team, too," Sam replied, grabbing one of the many trophies Dean had accumulated through the years and handing it to him.

Dean hesitated before he accepted the trophy, wondering if he might be electrocuted if he took it. When he finally took possession of the trophy Dean studied every inch of it, running his hands over the etched words that read 'Dean Winchester All State Champions 1998.'

"That one's from highschool," Sam added. "But you played in college, too."

Shaking his head in disbelief, Dean set the trophy down on the table beside the bed. "What other lies do you have in that bag?"

"Please, Dean. Try to accept this stuff. Try to remember. You're really starting to freak me out with all this 'not my life' stuff." There was that look again, the puppy dog gaze.

Dean sighed heavily. "I'm sorry, Sammy. I'll try better." _I've got to get him on my side. I'm never going to figure this out on my own. _

"I'd rather you call me Sam," the boy voiced, reaching into the bag yet again, this time bringing out a model car.

"Now that I recognize," Dean said, his eyes finally lighting up as he reached for the miniature version of his precious Chevy Impala. "Well, not the model itself. But I have a real car just like it. I know this car."

A smile widened on Sam's face. "Yes, you do. It's your obsession. You treat that thing better than most girls you've dated."

"So I own that car in this reality, too?" Dean questioned eagerly, sitting up straighter in his curiosity.

Sam nodded, choosing to ignore the wording, although it still tugged at his subconscious. _This reality? As in, there are other realities?_ It was still so hard for Sam grasp Dean's mental state, and every time he made reference to it Sam found himself wincing internally. "It's been parked in the garage ever since the accident. Dad brought it home so we could keep an eye on it. He knew you would be pissed if anything happened to it." He didn't add that they'd wondered if Dean would ever be able to drive it again.

_It's like they know me. How do they know me so well? _Dean smiled, finding himself relaxing some as things became more and more familiar. "Thank you for taking care of my car." He was surprised to find that his curiosity was actually beginning to overpower him, and he leaned forward, trying to look further into the bag. "What else do you have in there?" _If nothing else, this is making for a great show and tell._

More rooting through the bag resulted in another framed item, but this one wasn't a photo. Dean took the matted diploma in both hands, realizing that this would be the first and probably last time he would ever see his name combined with a degree. "I have a Bachelor's degree in History?" Dean asked, failing to hide his surprise.

"And a Master's. You focused on mythology. Your Master's thesis was a study on the mystical powers that many of the mythical creatures supposedly had. That's probably why you were dreaming about supernatural stuff when you were unconscious."

Dean froze, blinking in rapid succession. _No, that's not it. That can't be it. It wasn't a dream. It was real! I know it was real. _His body began to react once again, as the panic returned. The previously steady heart rate now seemed to double in speed, feeling as though it would burst free from his chest at any second. Breath came in short gasps, creating a dizzying feeling in his head as his brain was deprived of oxygen. The grey spots returned, dancing a polka in front of his eyes. Sweat poured down his face.

"Dean, calm down," Sam ordered, jumping from his seat and bracing his hands around Dean's shaking arms, pushing him back against the bed. "What's wrong?"

He couldn't tell him. Couldn't put it in words. Because if Dean admitted to Sam what was bothering him, it meant he had to admit to himself that he'd just lost his first ray of hope. He'd just doubted himself. Pieces of the life Sam was trying to demonstrate for him were beginning to fall into place, and Dean feared there was more logic to accepting a coma and a dream than to explain how he'd ended up in a new dimension of his previous life.

The frantic machines had registered down at the nurses station, and Laura soon rushed through the heavy door, filled syringe already in hand. Dean's eyes widened, adding to the already out of control panic that was presently consuming him. "I don't want that," he insisted. "I don't need it."

Laura stepped toward him, reaching for the IV line and the joint where she could insert the fluid. "Dean, you need to calm down. If you can't do it by yourself, I need to do it for you."

"Please," Dean begged, big brown eyes pleading, desperate. "I can calm down. Just give me a minute. I can calm down."

"You have one minute." He reacted to Laura's stern gaze, his brain somehow grasping an understanding of the urgency for him to calm down. "Deep breaths, Dean," she soothed, sliding the syringe into the front of her smock and placing her hands against the sides of his face. "You're doing great. Just breathe."

It took him less than the allotted minute for Dean to regain his composure, blushing when he realized the weakness he'd demonstrated twice in front of his nurse. _But then, she's seen me in my weakest hour. She was there in the hospital when Sam was brought in. She was there from the start. ...I think._ He had to know. Had to reconfirm that something wasn't right. Had to get himself back on track. "Laura, can I ask you a question?"

"Of course you can," she agreed, flashing a shy smile at her patient. Even having spent six weeks deep in a coma, not to mention his apparent psychological issues, she couldn't deny her attraction to his handsome, chiseled features.

Dean took a deep breath, preparing himself for her answer before he even gave the question. "When you were in school, were you ever the resident advisor in a dorm named Weston House?"

Sam shot up, arms outstretched just fast enough to catch the stunned nurse as she stumbled backwards, he knees going weak. "Dean, how did you know that?" Laura stammered, sinking into the chair that Sam offered her.

Instead of answering, Dean shot out another question. "Was there another RA there named Justine?"

Body shaking visibly, Laura nodded. "She was one of my best friends. How do you know these things?"

Again, he followed her question with another one of his own. "How many students went missing at the hands of the campus attacker?"

Laura's jaw dropped, answering Dean's question without ever saying a word, and proving that he'd achieved the desired shock effect. Looking over at his brother, Dean noted his eyes had also widened, having already heard the story earlier in the day. Part of Dean's dream wasn't entirely a dream. _What the hell?_


	4. Chapter 4

_Hey guys, thanks again for all your awesome reviews. I just have a few more notes for you guys. First of all, I know some of you are still feeling confused by this story. It won't change any time soon, hehe. If you're confused that means I'm doing my job correctly, because I'm trying to pull some of Dean's and Sam's confusion and reflect it into you, my readers. I promise you will get all the required answers by the end. Also, I promise this will pick up soon. There's a lot of back story I need to cover before we can get into the nitty gritty guts and gore type stuff. Stick with me! _

The revelation had hit Sam like a brass knuckled punch to the gut, uprooting his happy, normal life and flipping it all topsy turvy. _How can this even be possible? But how could he have known this stuff otherwise? _For several minutes Sam and Laura had done nothing but stare at Dean, scrutinizing him as though he were a specimen under a microscope. Sam wondered if he, himself were dreaming; that maybe he'd fallen asleep and began imagining his brother's ravings as his own. But as he bit the inside of his cheek, testing himself, the painful reply told him that he was very much alive. And that Dean's irrational and illogical proclamations were very much coming true.

At his brother's insistence, Sam had made tracks to the library in search of confirming details from the other cases and encounters Dean had recounted. It was all he and Laura could do to convince Dean that he wasn't well enough to go with Sam, but curiosity had seeped into Laura's mind and she timidly offered her assistance to Sam, explaining that her shift would be ending soon.

Sam looked to his brother for confirmation and Dean nodded. "You can trust her," he assured Sam, relieved when neither of them responded with the peculiar stares they'd become accustomed to shooting in his direction. "And hurry back with the results. I want to know what you find out."

It had taken a while before Sam and Laura managed to figure out how exactly they could find the information they were looking for. They couldn't exactly type in the keywords 'Wendigo' or 'angry spirit' or 'Pagan God scarecrow' and expect to turn up any results. But after scouring back issues of papers linked to the towns Dean claimed these things had occurred in, Sam and Laura had enough information to back up all of Dean's claims, and leave them even more confused than before.

Dean had been right about everything. Hikers and campers really had been going missing in the woods in Lost Creek, Colorado. Roosevelt Asylum did exist in Rockford, Illinois, and for months seemingly sane residents of the town had suddenly gone crazy. Every single location that Dean had referred to panned out. None of the articles were directly related, but knowing what they were looking for meant they were able to connect the dots.

"He's been telling the truth this whole time," Sam rasped, unable to hide his amazement. "I just don't get it."

"It's weird, though," Laura added, leafing through the stack of articles they had printed off. "You said Dean told you all these creatures had been taken care of. That you two hunted them and killed them. But none of these articles gives any indication that the terrors have ended. He didn't get all his facts straight."

Sam shrugged. "This is all so new to me, Laura. But I can only assume that whatever changed the course of Dean's life also changed the outcome of all these supernatural occurrences. If he– we, weren't out there fighting these things maybe nobody is." _Oh my God. What the hell am I saying? I can't believe I'm even giving this stuff credence._ _I sound like a raving lunatic!_ Sam pulled up a chair, collapsing heavily into the uncomfortable wooden structure. "The bigger question is what do we do with this information. We can't exactly take it to the police."

"I guess we talk to your brother. He seems to know a lot more about this stuff than we give him credit for." Laura continued to flip through the data, her mind working overtime to piece together the puzzle.

It was late when Sam made it back to the hospital, and Dean had long ago fallen asleep. He'd fought his exhaustion with everything he had, but it finally won out despite his anxiety. "Dude, you slept for six and a half weeks. Don't you think that's enough?" Sam teased his unconscious brother, speaking quietly so as not to wake him. There would be plenty of time to talk with Dean in the morning, and right now Sam just needed time to think. He'd parted ways with Laura at the library, assuring her that he would fill her in on anything that was said while she wasn't there.

After easing himself into the chair by the bed, Sam spent several minutes just watching and listening. The steady rise and fall of Deans chest accompanied with the light snoring was comforting to Sam. If he could just drown himself in the monotony and the simplicity of his brother's breathing maybe he could forget about the craziness that Dean had brought into his life. _I thought the worst that could happen was the accident itself, but then there was the coma, and his spinal cord injury. But God, out of everything that's been thrown at us in the last month and a half I never dreamed we'd be worrying about...about what? What even is this? What do you call what's going on? _

Dropping his head into his hands, Sam heaved audibly. "What on earth do you have against normal that you had to go and twist everything in your life around so bad." For six and a half weeks Sam and his parents had done nothing but agonize over how they would break the news to an extremely active and egocentric Dean that he would never walk again. His parents had poured money into home renovations, making the house wheelchair accessible for the inevitable day that they would bring their oldest son home from the hospital. They had spoken with all the specialists, searching for every available answer to the glaring question. But everyone had given the same answer. A fragmented vertebrae had completely severed his spinal cord, rendering Dean permanently paralyzed from the waist down. Short of a miracle, there was nothing that could be done to reverse the injury. He would spend the rest of his life in a wheelchair.

Sam distinctly remembered the day his parents had broken that little tidbit of news to him. Thirty-one days. _Dean had been in a coma for thirty-one days before they had finally given up hope. It was the twelfth specialist they'd talked too, and after hearing the exact same answer as they'd gotten from the other eleven John and Mary had finally accepted the inevitable. They arrived in Dean's hospital room to find that Sam hadn't moved from his usual spot beside Dean's bed. He spent the hours of silence studying, preparing himself for the bar exam that he would be taking upon his return to school. As his parents walked hesitantly into the room, Sam had looked up from his book, closing it immediately when he saw their faces._ _"Mom, Dad, what's wrong?_"

_It was the first time Sam had allowed himself to cry in the wake of the accident, because it was the first time he'd actually accepted Dean's fate. His mother had pulled him close, her own set of tears mixing with her younger son's. And then John had joined them, embracing his wife and child with his strong arms. And it was at that point, as they joined together to fight the battle, that Sam resolved to stand by his brother through it all, promising to help him with whatever he faced when he woke up. _He just hadn't expected Dean would call him to his promise with this half-baked scenario of alternate universes and parallel worlds.

As Sam's thoughts covered the months worth of stories and details Dean had given him he finally allowed himself the succumb to his own exhaustion, falling heavily into a deep, dream-filled sleep. Images of the hunts Dean had described decorated his subconscious mind, cryptic messages and symbols illuminated the intangible walls of his dream world, and, oddly enough, Sam felt comfortable with it all. They weren't nightmare's that plagued his sleep; just dreams. Added confirmations of Dean's convoluted stories.

He slept hard and long, only waking up when the sun was high in the sky and the breakfast carts were rattling around, making their final rounds through the halls. He woke with a jolt, sitting up straight and immediately regretting the quick move as his stiff limbs protested harshly. Sam's confusion subsided immediately as he realized he was sore because he'd fallen asleep in the stiff bedside chair. _It's a miracle I didn't fall out of this torture trap last night._ Rolling his head across his shoulders, Sam attempted to stretch his aching muscles, stopping abruptly when he sensed the urgency in the air. It wasn't the breakfast carts that had woken him up. It was Dean.

Sam bolted from his seat, ignoring the stiffness that met his body, and hovered over Dean's thrashing body nervously. "Dean, dude wake up," Sam insisted forcefully, grasping his brother's shoulders and shaking them roughly. Dean continued to flail, muttering incomprehensible words under his breath. Pausing for a minute, Sam leaned in closer, listening intently to his brother's words, finally making some of them out.

The dreams had remained minimal when Dean first fell asleep, his enervation far too extreme to make room for little picture shows in his mind. But sleeping began to revive him and the later hours of his sleep opened the opportunity to dream, and dream he did. His subconscious mind was heavily in search of answers to why he'd woken in a different life; _how_ he'd woken in a different life. He replayed the last couple of months in his mind, so far only able to ascertain the start of the problem. Sam's paralysis, his own paralysis; there had to be a connection to it somewhere. The two couldn't be a mere coincidence. His thoughts focused on the final showdown with the brain demon, analyzing every detail of the fight, wondering if somehow it wasn't Sam that had been hurt, but himself. But then he realized that even that wasn't possible. Because it still wouldn't explain this new world, where demon hunting didn't exist. But his mind wouldn't leave that scene, and he became more and more agitated as he watched in slow motion Sam's anguished face and his own panic over his little brother's injuries at the hands of the demon. _Sammy, this is no time to be joking. Of course your legs are moving. We're gonna get you out of here. We're gonna get you to a hospital. You're gonna be fine. Don't leave me Sammy. Sammy, stay with me. _With each mumbled word Dean became more and more insistent, his cries becoming more frantic.

Listening to Dean's pain wasn't worth it to Sam to hear any more; he had to wake Dean up before he panicked again. "Come on, Dean. You've gotta wake up for me." Sam shook his brother more firmly.

Dean's eyes shot open as he gasped, panting heavily, trying to reorient himself to his surroundings. "Sam? You're okay?" Worry lines snaked around his face as he scanned Sam for any sign of injury.

"I'm fine," Sam assured him, staring straight into Dean's eyes, forcing him to make eye contact. The gesture worked and Dean relaxed visibly. "What were you dreaming about just now?"

"I don't want to talk about it, Sam," Dean replied, breaking the eye contact. "What did you find out last night? Do you finally believe me?"

Sam sighed, returning to his seat while Dean raised the head of the bed. "It opened a whole new set of questions," he replied, purposely avoiding giving a straight answer.

Dean easily read Sam's mind, smirking. _This may me a different dimension, but the boy still thinks the same. _"Sam, if you're asking why the change, I don't have an answer for you. I just woke up this way, with all these different memories. Remember?"

Leaning his head back against laced fingers, Sam stared at the ceiling. "You just don't get it," Sam explained. "Dean, we're normal. We're a nice, normal family, in a nice, normal town, with a nice, normal existence. We couldn't be more boring if you tried. And then you get in a car accident and wake up claiming that you and I are ghost hunters and Mom's not even supposed to be alive. Can you see where this makes it hard to believe you?"

Dean stared hard at his brother, eyes boring deep into Sam's skull. He paused for a long time before he finally broke the awkward silence. "But you _do_ believe me, don't you."

At first, Sam's head barely moved. He feared what he was about to admit to. _There's no going back after this, Sam. I can't change anything from here on out. _But his heart finally won out over his logical thinking mind, and he nodded more forcefully. "Yes, Dean. I believe you. Laura does, too."

"I knew she could be trusted here, too," Dean voiced happily. "Damn, I love that girl!"

Sam cocked his head, staring at his brother curiously again, but this time because of his obvious affections toward Laura instead of his reference to another world. "There something you're not telling me bro?"

Dean nodded, unable to wipe ths smitten smile off his face. "We met in the other world, too. She helped me through so much when you were in the hospital there, and we got really close. She was the first girl I ever told about what I– we do– I mean did. And she accepted it."

"Well, oddly enough, she accepts it here, too. But the question now is what do we do about this? Where do we go from here?"

"From here," Dean answered, a sly grin forming. If you looked hard enough you could see the gears turning in his head. "You need to get me out of this hospital. I can't do anything from a bed in this sterile excuse for a residence. Get me a wheelchair and get me the hell out of here."

Shaking his head vigorously, Sam held firm. "No. Absolutely not. You haven't even been out of your coma for a whole day yet, Dean. And you're paralyzed. It's not like you just have a broken foot. You need therapy, and counseling. Even when they check you out of here, you won't be coming home just yet. Mom and Dad have been looking into rehab hospitals."

"I've already been through all of this with you, little brother," Dean scoffed. "I may not have actually experienced everything, but I was there for your rehab. I don't need my own. Just get me out of here."

Sam continued to hesitate. "What do I tell Mom and Dad? They'll kill me." Sam whined, but Dean could tell he was beginning to crack.

"We'll figure it out," Dean insisted. "Damn it, Sam. Just get me out of here, will you?"

It worked. Just as his demands had always been answered in the other world, Sam responded favorably to Dean's demands again. Staring at his feet, Sam mumbled. "Alright. I'll get you out of here. Just give me time to find you a wheelchair."

Dean grinned, satisfied. "That's my boy," he whispered under his breath as Sam disappeared through the door. "You're so predictable."


	5. Chapter 5

**Any of the characters or situations mentioned in this story are solely for the continuity of the story and are not mine in any way. But the story itself is my brainchild, but I give up my rightsshould the producers choose to create an episode based on my ideas. Hint Hint. **

_You guys are sooo awesome. I'mpsyched that you love this story. Keep the review coming!_

It took Sam more than an hour to return, and by the time he did Dean was just about crawling out of his skin. "You damn well better have been in a coma yourself for as long as it took you to get your ass back here," Dean growled, not wasting a second beyond the his first notice of Sam's foot stepping through the door. "I could kill you for making me wait this long."

"I'd like to see you try," Sam taunted, calling Dean on his bluff. "But you really would have killed me if you'd seen the crap the hospital was handing out for wheelchair's. And as many hours as you spend in front of the mirror, I didn't want you staring back at those monstrosities. Nothing but then best for my big brother." Sam backtracked into the hall, returning immediately with a sleek blue aluminum chair with a sharp black seat and back.

"Are you trying to be patronizing, or does this just come naturally to you?" Dean sneered, rolling his eyes. "I don't care what the hell kind of chair you got me. I just want to get the hell out of this damn hospital. The sooner we get out of here, the sooner I can figure a way out of this mess."

Sam felt a sharp pang in his chest, and he had to fight against the air that seemed to have been slammed out of his lungs. Dean didn't realize what he was saying, but Sam couldn't help wonder what it meant for the rest of them. _What happens to us, in this world, when Dean figures his way out. And what happens to us in Dean's world? _Blinking, ignoring his own worries, Sam shoved the chair forward and aligned it with the bed. "You're sure you want to leave so soon?" he asked for lack of anything better to say.

Dean nodded firmly. "Damn straight, Sammy-boy. Let's blow this pop stand."

Memories of Sam's transfer efforts still hung fresh in Dean's mind, and he used those images to mentally talk himself through his own. Dean leaned over his numb legs, only noticing for the first time how weird they felt attached to his body. He'd spent every waking minute worrying about where he was that he hadn't wasted a minute focusing on his legs. But now he took the time, silently damning them because it was one more thing to contend with in this black hole he'd become trapped in. _Damn, this is so much harder than Sam made it look,_ Dean thought as he slowly dragged the lifeless limbs off the bed and draped them over the side. _Move, Damn it. I don't have time for this!_ Bracing his arms, Dean scooted himself forward, seating himself on the edge of the bed. He reached for the wheelchair and angled it the way he'd watched Sam do it so many times, raising the armrest out of the way, and setting the brakes. His mind wandered to the day he'd tried the chair after their fight. _I had no idea. Even when I thought I was only using my arms, I was still using my legs. This is so much harder than I thought. _Reaching out, Dean placed his hands strategically, one on the chair and one still on the bed. Sam stepped forward, sliding his arms under Dean's armpits, and Dean halted.

"Dude, what the hell do you think you're doing?" Dean snapped, spinning his head in Sam's direction.

"I'm trying to help," Sam answered timidly, not backing off.

"Well get off me," came the irritated reply as Dean shrugged his brother's unwanted hands out from under him. "I can do this myself. If I'd wanted your help I would have asked for it."

Sam stepped back, arms crossed, nervously watching his brother as he swung himself awkwardly into the chair. He had to suppress the urge to jump in and help as Dean's hand slipped from the armrest, causing him to fall painfully into the hard plastic. Dean winced as his ribs took the brunt of the impact, but he wiped the give-away expression from his face as soon as it had landed there. _I'll be damned if he sees me hurting. I won't be weak. Not in front of Sam. Not in front of anyone. _Dean quickly righted himself, planting his feet on the footrests of the wheelchair, smugly smiling at his stunned brother.

"I can't believe you just did that all by yourself," Sam announced incredulously, not even attempting to hide his surprise. "That...that's amazing."

"I'm not a dog," Dean snapped, shoving the chair forward, towards the door. "So don't be getting excited about all the fancy little tricks you think I'm performing. I lived through this with you. If there's one thing I brought with me into this world, it's knowledge about paralysis. Now let's get moving."

Sam followed reluctantly, Dean's bags slung over his shoulder. "We have to stop at the nurses station," he practically whispered, not wanting to endure his brother's wrath anymore. "You need to sign your AMA papers."

Dean scoffed. "Like hell. The whole point of leaving against medical advice is that they can't tell you what to do or when to do it. Their stupid papers are just another way to prove they still have power. I'm not signing a thing.

"But Dean–" Sam protested, sprinting to catch up to his brother who was already halfway down the hallway.

"I said now, Sam," Dean interrupted, pressing the down button for the elevator. "You're either with me or you're not. But tell me now so I can find another ride if I have to."

"I'm with you," Sam mumbled, scuffing his toe on the floor of the shiny tile floor. "I just don't think this is a good idea."

"Yeah, well, I don't keep you around to think. So I guess you're in luck."

They made it out of the hospital and through the parking lot in complete silence. Sam had to bite his tongue several times as he watched Dean struggle through crowds of people, a sharp corner, and two seemingly shallow and yet all too steep ramps. But Dean had made it perfectly clear that he wanted no help, and Sam didn't look forward to the words that would escape his brother's newly foul mouth if he even attempted to offer his assistance.

"Where'd you park?" Dean finally asked as they wound their way through the monstrosity of a parking lot. He would never admit it to Sam, hell he could barely admit it to himself, but he was getting tired. His arms ached and his breathing was getting shallow, and he wanted nothing more than to be stationary again.

Looking behind him at his brother's pale, haggard face, the words slipped out of Sam's mouth before he could stop himself. "Do you want me to get the car for you?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "No, I don't want you to get the car for me," Dean replied stubbornly, shoving harder against the rims. "I can make it just fine."

"Fine. Have it your way." Sam stormed ahead again, worried thoughts on how he would explain this to his parents shoving their way to the front of his subconscious. _God, I'm in so much trouble. _

The red Ford F-350 super cab towered over the smaller vehicles surrounding it, and Dean's mouth gaped open as he heard the unmistakable blip blip emit from it as Sam pressed into the remote on his key chain. "That's yours?" he asked, incredulously.

"Yeah," Sam answered proudly, puffing his chest as he walked toward his own baby. "You like it?"

Dean slowly shook his head, disbelievingly. "I just never pegged you for the truck type," he answered, moving toward the passenger side. "I always saw you as more of a two-seater sports car. You know, fast. Sleek."

"Nope. Mom and Dad bought this baby for me as an early graduation present. I picked her out myself." Hesitantly, Sam leaned out and opened the heavy door for his brother, holding his breath as he waited for the complaints that surprisingly never came. Dean was too busy gawking at the monstrosity of a truck to notice the open door. "You just gonna sit there all day or are you getting in?"

Dean snapped out of his trance, rolling forward and sidling up against the truck. He reached high, planting his hand firmly onto the seat and the other clutched tightly onto the door frame, and pulled. "Dammit, Sam, you had to have a truck," Dean scowled. His shoulders screamed as the muscles and ligaments were stretched to the limit. Arms shook fiercely through the strain, and Dean had to put every ounce of his efforts into climbing in the seat that was several feet higher than the wheelchair. When he'd finally won the battle, he leaned back against the seat, panting heavily, face red.

"You alright there?" Sam inquired, folding the wheelchair and setting it into the bed of the truck. "That looked tough."

"Yeah, well, if you owned a _car_ like the rest of the normal world..."

Sam chose to be smart, ignoring Dean's not so subtly dropped hint. He made his own effortless leap into the driver's side and started up the car without ever glancing at his combative brother. _This is ridiculous. He's ready to blow at any minute and I'm taking his ass home? I must be just as crazy as he is. _

Dean stared out the window in faded curiosity as he watched the busy city streets give way to smaller suburban streets. He had no idea how long the drive had taken them, but soon enough the truck was turning into one of the many driveways along the residential street. It wasn't until he'd lowered himself painfully back into the wheelchair that he allowed himself to ingest the house that joined the paved driveway. _Oh my God, we're the fucking Cleavers,_ Dean thought to himself sarcastically as he took in the sight of the picturesque sky-blue Victorian house with gingerbread trim and a little white picket fence surrounding the entire perimeter. The whole scene was disgustingly perfect, not a paint chip in sight, not even a faded board. Even the landscaping had every flower in place with no sign of a weed anywhere. He half expected to see his parents emerge from the house, grins from ear to ear, his mother in a floral house coat and ruffled apron, father in a brown double breasted suit and matching fedora. And just when Dean thought he'd seen it all, a chocolate lab bounded out from behind the house, whining happily at the sight of his 'boys.'

"We have a dog?" He made no efforts to hide his shock as he sat motionless in the driveway, hands clenched tightly against the steel rims, knuckles white.

"Correction," Sam explained, gripping the handles of Dean's wheelchair and pushing him towards the porch when he'd realized Dean wouldn't be moving anytime soon. "_You _have a dog. His name's Atlas, and we've been taking care of him since you got hurt."

"I don't even like dogs!" Dean protested, the fact that Sam was pushing him barely registering above the newest obscure turn of events. "At least I think I don't like dogs. Honestly, I don't know– never really had time for dogs."

Sam sighed, bringing Dean to a stop on the porch at the top of the ramp, and spun the chair around, forcing Dean to face him. Leaning back on his haunches, Sam made direct eye contact with his stubborn brother. "Look, Dean, I know this is weird for you. Don't get me wrong, cause it's weird for me too. And, for some reason I'm willing to try to help you figure this whole alternate world thing out. But Mom and Dad– they're not going to want anything to do with this. They're not going to understand this. To be perfectly honest, I don't even think we're going to manage to get them to understand why you're already home. The old Dean –the Dean you were before the accident– would never have argued with doctor's orders. So if it's not too much trouble, do you think you could make my life just a little bit easier and try to pretend like everything's normal? At least around Mom and Dad?"

_Man, the kid looks so desperate. It's not gonna kill me to help him out just a little. I mean he is trying to help me, too. And I guess it would be interesting to find out how my life would have turned out if things had been different from the start. _Dean shrugged nonchalantly. "Yeah. Okay, I guess I could help you out a bit. I guess I could do that."

Smiling gratefully, Sam returned to his full height and reached around Dean to open the door, giving his brother passage into yet another part of this unknown world. Dean rolled forward, entering the massive house and carefully analyzing every detail. He vaguely noticed Sam calling out to their parents, but when the answer never came Dean was free to explore.

The walls of the entry hall and the stairs contained photo after photo of the family. Pictures of the whole family, Dean and Sam, Dean alone, Sam alone, graduation pictures, professional photos, casual snapshots, their mother loved pictures of the men in her life and she'd filled the walls with them. In the living room were more pictures, and a bookshelf in the corner was littered with strategically placed plaques and trophy's. As Dean drew nearer, he noticed that half the shelving had been reserved for Sam and his baseball and swimming trophy's, and the other half contained Dean's multitude of soccer trophy's and a few baseball trophy's of his own.

"She sure like's to collect memories, huh," Dean muttered, not really expecting that Sam would answer him.

"Mom's just proud of us." Sam had remained several steps behind his brother, allowing him to absorb the information without interruption or distraction. But he'd felt the need to defend his mother against Dean's intoned sarcasm. "She care's Dean. She really does. Dad, too."

"I never said they didn't," Dean argued, leaving the bookcase and making his way from the living room and into the dining room. Oddly enough, he didn't find it strange that their mother had set the dining room table for four, despite her lack of knowledge of when, or even if, her oldest son would wake up. Having noticed her compulsive need to create a homey environment, Dean would have been more surprised if she hadn't had a place set for him. In the china cabinet Dean finally noticed something familiar, and he rolled closer so he could get a better view. On display in the cabinet was his mother's prized china, a collection of dishes that had passed through his mother's family for five generations. He could remember a day, as a child, that he'd been running through the house and almost smacked into his mother as she carried a stack of the precious dishes to a different cabinet in a different house. After setting them safely on a table she had chided him for several minutes on his carelessness, explaining to him that their house was no place to be running. If he had that much energy, he should be outside, enjoying the beautiful weather. She had died less than a month later, murdered in a fire over Sam's bed.

Cautiously, Dean reached a hand to the glass that separated him from the priceless artifacts, fingering the outline of the etched serving dish on display in the front of the cabinet. "She doesn't bring those out very often," Sam offered in hushed tones. "I guess you almost broke one when you were a kid, and she got nervous. Only brings them out on special occasions."

Dean turned quickly, angry with himself for showing even the slightest hint of emotion. There could be no nostalgia; not in his life. Not in the life of a hunter. "So let me meet this dog of mine," he announced, pretending he hadn't heard Sam. "He's allowed in the house, right?"

Sam walked briskly to the kitchen, opening the back door as he yelled back to Dean. "Of course he's allowed in the house. He's extremely well trained."

The dog bounded through the door, body quavering with puppish excitement as he tore past Sam and landed his front paws with hyper exhilaration on his master's lap, the unlocked wheels of the chair causing Dean to roll backwards several feet before he could get control of them. All seventy pounds of the hairy, chocolate colored brute followed the chair, oblivious to its purpose. All he cared about was reaching the man who had been absent from his life for the last six weeks. "Whoa, whoa dog, chill." Dean pushed against the dog's chest, his head seemingly going into convulsions as he attempted unsuccessfully to escape the wet tongue that seemed to cover his face with every swipe.

"Atlas," Sam called, laughter getting in the way of his attempt to sound firm. "Atlas, get down. Sit."

Thankfully, the dog obeyed the wavered command, his rear falling quickly to the floor. But he continued to wiggle, whining desperately for more attention from his beloved person. In spite of himself, Dean found he actually enjoyed dishing out his attentions on the furry beast and his hand reached hesitantly to its head, patting it self-consciously. The petting grew with more intensity as the dog responded favorably to Dean's affections. _Now this I can live with. No questions. No back-talk. Just unconditional love. Man, I should have gotten myself a dog a long time ago. He even listens better than Sammy. _

As he continued to stroke the pet, Dean's eyes glanced something else he hadn't noticed earlier, and he reached his other hand out to grab it, setting the book on his lap. Sam stepped closer, sitting on the table the photo album had just vacated and leaning over his brother to see the pictures too.

"The family photo album," Sam stated unnecessarily. "Mom pulled that out the day you got hurt. I think she flips through it just about every day, just to see you."

Dean opened the album to the first page, staring at an aged family portrait taken in the early eighties when Sam was just a few weeks old and he was four. He knew the picture; had carried a wallet sized version of it for as long as he could remember, as long as his mother had been dead. Dean stared at it for several minutes, absently stroking the dog's head which had become permanently glued to his unfeeling leg. He finally flipped the page, and on that one and the next several pages he viewed images of himself and his parents from birth to age four, all of which he remembered. But that's where his memories ended and new ones began, and he gazed intently, engrossing himself in images of what could have been.

It was difficult to swallow down the knot that was forming in his throat as Dean looked through yearly school pictures of himself and Sam, birthday photos, family vacations, and every other milestone he'd experienced in his twenty-six years on this version of the planet. _So this is what it's like to have a normal family. This is what my life would have been like if there was no demon._ In one photo, he and Sam beamed, awestruck, beside Micky and Minnie Mouse on the family vacation to Disney World when they were eight and four. In another, a ten year old Dean proudly held up a large bass he'd just caught, his father's arm wrapped lovingly around his son's shoulder. A third photo depicted sixteen year old Dean dressed in an oversized monkey suit standing stiffly beside his cute little blonde date on their way to the sophomore prom. So many memories, and yet he hadn't experienced a single one of them. A sharp pang of resentment flowed through his body. But the time Dean allowed himself to mourn was cut short as he and Sam heard the front door slam shut and their parents came into view, anger unmistakable on their contorted faces. He quickly closed the album and slid it back onto the table, face flushing as though he'd been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. But John and Mary Winchester could care less about the photo album he'd been looking at, and as Dean looked into their furious faces he realized just how foolish he'd been to worry about the stupid book.

"You boys are in so much trouble," their father's voice boomed, reminding Dean of the childhood _he_ knew. The brother's froze, waiting expectantly for the bomb to drop.


	6. Chapter 6

**I do not, in any way, shape, or form, own Supernatural or any of its characters. But everything else in this story are mine.**

_Hey hey! Thanks so much for all your awesome reviews. I love hearing from you, and I love seeing all the gears turning in your curious little minds as you try to figure this out. Some of you are on the right track with your thoughts, but I'm not saying who! Keep reading_. _Everything will come to light in due time. Enjoy!_

Their father's icy stare unnerved the brother's, and Sam felt himself scooting closer to his big brother, looking for protection. Or maybe to give protection; he didn't really know. Face red, John Winchester took an angry step toward his two boys, his wife trying her best to calm him despite her own furiousness. Dean shrank back, reaching for the wheels of the chair in case he needed to make a fast escape. Even the dog seemed to notice the tension in the air, but instead of hiding he planted himself between Dean and John, staring down the man as if to warn him, _take one step towards my boy and I'll prove I can do more than just be a happy little puppy._

Dean slapped on his best 'I'm ignorant and have absolutely no idea why you're so mad,' grin and looked at the fuming couple in the doorway. "Hi guys," he grinned innocently.

They didn't buy it. "What the hell kind of stunt do you two boys think you're pulling?" their father boomed, enunciating each word with infinite clarity. "This has to be the stupidest idea ever to have crossed either of your pea-brained minds! It was dumb! Idiotic! What the _hell_ were you thinking?"

Glancing nervously back and forth the brother's went into a silent battle over who would be the one to explain their predicament. Dean, at least, was used to this side of John Winchester, and had plenty of experience attempting to deflate his anger. But Sam had grown up with Mary Winchester, knew the way she ticked far better than Dean ever could. Who would be the better one to defuse their parents?

Finally taking the lead, Sam stood, taking a hesitant step toward his father. "Mom, Dad, I can explain," he stuttered, nervously biting his bottom lip as he reached deep into his brain for a plausible lie.

"No, _I_ can explain," Dean interrupted, saving his brother, not to mention himself, from a lie he knew would never be believed. _This is my mess. I have to get us out of it. _"It was my choice, Sam. You just drove the getaway car."

"This better be good," their mother warned through clenched teeth, leading her husband to the couch. "Because I can't think of one possible excuse that would make it OK for you to check yourself out of the hospital less than a day after you woke from a coma. Do you have any idea how worried we were when we got to the hospital and found somebody else in your room?"

Dean held his tongue, wisely choosing not to correct his mother on the idea that he'd actually taken the time to check himself out of the hospital, instead fast-forwarding to the part where he explained why he'd made the great escape. "I just couldn't stay there anymore," he explained, adding a bit of whine to his voice for added measure. "I felt like I was suffocating. Sure, maybe it wasn't the smartest move, but I'd rather recuperate at home." _This better work. I can't very well tell them that I've recovered in a run-down motel in worse shape than I'm in now. And I certainly can't explain to them why I don't want my own therapy._ "Please just let me stay here for now. If I start getting worse, I'll go back to the hospital. I promise." He was a good actor, an excellent one actually, so Dean knew that he would easily be able to hide it if his condition worsened. This father didn't embody the unnatural lie radar that _his_ father had represented, and even with honed mothering abilities he doubted this mother would be able to read him _that_ well. He was just too good. It was a safe wager that he could avoid ever returning to the hospital with this deal. He finalized his efforts with a pleading, puppy dog gaze that directly matched the one Atlas was shooting at him.

When Dean put on the charm, no woman had ever been able to deny him, and his mother was no exception. She softened, shoulders slumping some from their original squared tenseness. "Dean, we're not trying to be mean here. We just want what's best for you. And what's best for you is that you return to the hospital until the doctor feels you're well enough to be discharged to a rehab hospital. And then you need physical therapy. You _need_ to learn how to use that wheelchair; how to take care of yourself." Tears brimmed in her eyes, but she didn't bother trying to wipe them away. It was obvious that it killed her to even think about her oldest son being paralyzed, and talking about it was even worse. She choked on her words as she continued. "We– we've already talked to s– some people about a really great rehab hospital out in Oregon. They say they've gotten people up and wal–"

"Save it, Mom," Dean interrupted, hesitating when he realized he'd just called her 'mom'. The word sounded foreign, unfamiliar. But it still felt good to say it. "You and I both know I'm never getting out of this chair. We all do. Sam already told me what the doctor's said."

"The doctor's are wrong," she insisted, leaning forward towards her son, eyes pleading with him to accept her words. "But you need to be willing to fight."

"I am willing to fight," Dean assured her, "but for now I want to fight from home. Please, Mom. Just trust me for now."

Mary hesitated, looking anxiously at her husband for confirmation. Twenty-four hours ago her son had been in a coma, totally lost to the world. A few hours after that, he'd been awake but far from lucid. And yet now he was sitting in front of them, in their home, asking them to trust him; to believe what he was saying and to accept his pleas. He was twenty-six. Legally an adult. But did that mean they had to give way to his idiotic requests?

Slowly, barely noticeable, John nodded his head in affirmation. "I don't think we have any choice other than to trust our son," he relented, speaking quietly to his wife as though he believed it would keep the boys from hearing him. "He's promised to go back if he get's any worse. That's about as good as we can ask for right now."

She pulled a tissue from her pocket, finally wiping her eyes. "OK," she agreed, yielding stubbornly. "But you still go to therapy. We'll set up an out-patient program."

He'd won. Truth be told, Dean would have preferred to skip the therapy all together, but his mother's compromise was better than the alternative and he accepted it without complaint. So why did he feel so deflated?

It had been more than an hour since Sam had brought him home. More than an hour since he'd over-exerted himself wandering through the halls of the hospital and struggling into and out of the torture trap his brother called a vehicle. Tough as he believed he was, Dean was no more immune to the effects of six weeks in deep slumber and brunt force trauma to the spine than any other human being. His physical struggles of the day, combined with the emotional outburst he'd just dealt with were quickly taking its toll on Dean's consciousness. His eyes, lined with dark circles, felt heavy. His arms leaden. Dean was exhausted and, much to his chagrin, Mary's intuitive eye noticed despite his best efforts to hide it.

"There's something else that I have to insist upon," Mary added, crossing her arms stubbornly. "As long as you're living under my roof, you live by my rules. And right now, I say you need to get some rest."

Even if he'd wanted to Dean couldn't have protested, and right now he was grateful for the order. It meant not having to admit his own exhaustion. He nodded slowly, even that move requiring more effort than he'd expected. "Lead the way."

She stood, dabbing the final bit of moisture from her eyes before putting the damp tissue in the garbage. "Since your old room is upstairs, we had to turn the den into a bedroom for you," she explained, glancing worriedly back at her older son as he followed her weakly from the room. Sam and their father pattered just behind Dean, Sam's hand resting unobtrusively on one of the handles, pushing ever so gently in an effort to help. Whether Dean noticed or not, he didn't say anything as the family wove through the hallway to the back of the house where the den lay nestled between a bathroom and the door to the basement.

"Here we are." Mary held the door open for the men, looking more than apologetic. "I'm sorry it's not dressed up the same way you had your bedroom. We just didn't expect you to be home nearly so soon, so I haven't had an opportunity to do much more than move the equipment in. We'll fix it up together, if you like."

If he hadn't been so tired Dean probably would have alternated between laughter and annoyance at the sight of the room. Had she not actually called the room a den he never would have been able to tell that it wasn't his old bedroom; or at least someone's old bedroom. Maybe it was simply his affinity for lackluster hotel rooms, but Dean saw no reason to improve on the design. It lacked any den-like qualities, with the exception, maybe, of the large oak desk that sat in the corner, covered with stacks of medical magazines. Otherwise, it could have easily been a male's bedroom. Along one wall was a large home entertainment system with a 32-inch TV, DVD player, three different video game systems, and a treasure trove of DVD's and video games. The table beside the bed was stacked high with back issues of Sports Illustrated, Car and Driver, Motor Trend, National Geographic, and Rolling Stone. Peeking out from under the stack, as though they'd been carefully hidden at the bottom, Dean noticed issues of Maxim and GQ. He mentally reminded himself to thank Sam for sneaking those into the mix, too. Along another wall, Dean noticed a separate table with a six disc CD player and a massive collection of CD's, making a mental note to check them out when he was more awake.

His annoyance was triggered by the all too sterile, hospital environment that glared at him despite the attempts at normality in the room. The bed was high-class, expensive, but still appeared to be hospital issue with its moveable parts, bed rails, and remote controlled access. Even with the blue and green checked bedspread and dark blue sheets covering it, Dean still couldn't get past what it represented. Hanging over the bed Dean noticed the grab bar, the same triangular shaped metal that he remembered hanging over Sam's bed when he'd been in the hospital. _This is so gonna suck._ Blanking his face, refusing to show any emotion at all, Dean pushed forward towards the bed and lined himself up, ready to transfer into it.

"Let me give you a hand their, son," John offered, stepping towards Dean before he could answer.

"I'm alright," Dean insisted feebly, flailing hand brushing off the older man's advances. But from the corner of his eye Dean could see Sam cross his arms against his chest and shake his own head firmly at Dean. _Let him help_, Sam mouthed to his brother, and Dean got it. _This _worlds' Dean doesn't have the strength and stubborn willpower that he'd brought with him. They'd get too suspicious if he was able to climb into the bed so soon after waking.

Controlling his urge to slap the man's hands away took the remaining energy Dean had left, but he allowed himself to be helped into bed, not protesting when his arms were draped over John's shoulders and his limp body was lifted effortlessly onto the bed. Mary took over where her husband left off, propping her son against herself as she assisted him with his shirt, pulling it over his head in one swift move. But she soon froze, efforts halting unnaturally when her eyes landed upon Dean's now bare chest. Sam noticed it, too. And Dean was suddenly wide awake again as the realization hit him. This one may not be able to be explained.

Mary gasped sympathetically, confusion written all across her face as she reached a hand hesitantly out to her sons stomach. "Where did these come from?"

Dean gulped as he looked down, staring at the three inch scar she was fingering gently. _That one was from the Wendigo. And that one, where her eyes are looking now_, _was where that bastard Bender seared me with the hot poker. And those pucker marks are from the rock salt at the asylum. Those are from the shadow demons. _Scar by scar, Dean recalled the history of every one. His arms, chest, and torso were marred by reminders of the angry welts and gunshots and stab wounds that had haunted his entire existence, and he had no way to explain them away.

"He was in a horrible car accident, Mom," Sam supplied, hoping desperately that she hadn't just heard his voice crack. "He's bound to have scars."

_Thank you, Sammy! _Dean had to give the kid credit; at least he'd tried. But Mary was far smarter than that, and she shook her head stubbornly, pulling her husband down to take a closer look. "No. You didn't have these in the hospital. I would have noticed them; I helped with your sponge baths."

_Well shit. Of course she would have seen me undressed while I– he was unconscious. She couldn't be an absentee parent, could she?_ He watched nervously as his father leant down to study the grid of imperfections of his son's skin, stomach inflating and deflating frantically as he tried to come up with a believable explanation. "Dean, some of these look old; years old," his father noticed, calloused fingers pushing against the rough keloids.

"Soccer injuries?" Dean suggested weakly, wracking his brain for what he knew about his 'other' life.

Mary rose from the bed and began pacing the floor, adamantly spouting her knowledge. "I told you, I don't remember those scars being there. There's no way they can be old. They can't be soccer injuries. They can't even be from the car accident."

Sam crossed the room toward his mother, clasping her arms tightly in his hands to stop her movement. "Mom, there was a lot going on. You were probably just too worried about everything else to take notice in a bunch of old scars. They did have him bandaged up for a while there."

"He's my son," she protested, squirming out of her younger boy's grasp. "I think I would have noticed if he'd been that covered in scars before. Look at him! Can you honestly tell me that this doesn't worry you?" She looked back and forth between Sam and her husband, waiting for someone to back her up as Dean sat in silence, listening to the exchange that was taking place around him. He wondered if it would be safer to interject his own suggestions, or if he would be better off to continue to allow them to forget he was even there. The latter soon won out as his mother's voice escalated.

"Don't tell me I'm blowing this out of proportion!" Mary shrieked at Sam, who had apparently told her just that. "Look at him! He looks like he was massacred!"

John finally interceded on his boys' behalf, pulling his wife toward the door. "Mary, our son is tired. It's been a long day. Could we please just save this for later? Just let him get some rest."

She mercifully relented, and followed her husband out of the room, but not until she'd turned back to her boys who now sat wide eyed on the bed. "This isn't over," she assured them, obviously more worried than angry. "We'll pick this back up when you're feeling better."

"Wow, that was a close one," Sam sighed, running his hands shakily through his long brown locks. "How did you get those scars anyway?"

Pulling himself slowly back, leaning against the pillows, Dean rolled his eyes at his brother. "What, have you been sleeping through the last 24 hours? I thought I explained all that to you. I got them hunting demons."

Sam whistled a breath out through his teeth, finally taking a good look at the patchwork pattern etched into Dean's chest. "Looks painful."

"Yeah, well, they weren't nearly as painful as the pain we're gonna be feeling if we can't figure out a way to get mom off my back. But right now, I want to get some sleep. We'll figure this out later."

Understanding his dismissal, Sam climbed hesitantly back to his feet and headed toward the door. "Do you need anything before I leave?" _Like, maybe a roommate, because I don't think I'm gonna get off nearly as easily as you did. The minute I step out the door Mom's gonna be riding my ass again like their's no tomorrow._

"Nope, Sam. I'm good. Thanks." As Sam cowered from the room Atlas made his way happily through the door, finally assuming it safe to enter. Oddly enough, Dean found himself enjoying the dog's company, and he fell asleep to the therapeutic comfort of his new companion's steady panting.

As Dean slept, Sam had crept quietly from the den and hesitantly slipped up the stairs. He would have made it without notice had the stairs themselves not given him up with a loud creaking on the second to last one. He cringed, leaning heavily on his heel in an effort to stop the creaking before it went any further, but it was too late.

"Sam!" his mother's voice nagged heatedly. "Get down here!"

_Crap. What the hell am I going to say?_ He tiptoed back down the stairs and timidly entered the living room, standing stiff as a board, hands clasped behind his back.

"What do you know?" She demanded, eyes burning into his.

Sam considered playing dumb, but he knew they were far beyond humor. "Mom, I don't know what kind of an answer you're looking for here. I mean, how could he possibly _not_ have had the scars while he was unconscious? You probably just didn't notice them." Sam crossed his fingers behind his back, silently praying she would accept it and let it go.

His mother eyed him sternly, and Sam began to squirm as she took her time considering his promulgation. "It still doesn't explain where they came from in the first place," she persisted, still unwilling to drop the issue.

Sam sighed, making audible his exasperation and annoyance at her line of questioning, and immediately feeling guilty for doing so. "I don't know, Mom. You're going to have to ask Dean if you want more answers. He said they're a mixture of soccer injuries and injuries form the accident. I'm sure there are other explanations as well. He's an active guy, Mom. And in addition to soccer, he likes extreme sports. I don't know what else to tell you."

"So you're saying you don't know how or why your brother looks like he got thrown into a meat processing plant?" Her tone was accusatory; she knew Sam knew more than he was telling her.

"I don't know any more than I've told you. What the hell do you think is going on? It's not like we've jumped into an alternative dimension or something." _When all else fails, sometimes hinting at the truth is the surest way to halt the line of questioning._

Mouth agape, she stared at Sam. For the slightest moment, Sam thought he'd blown it; that he'd just blurted out the one secret that would tear her world apart. But then her mouth twisted into a smile, and she was laughing. And Sam was laughing with her. "An alternate dimension?" she chuckled. "That's wild Sam. And I guess you're right. I probably did have more on my mind than looking at some old wounds. I suppose I was just blowing things out of proportion." She pulled Sam towards her, stretching on tiptoes to reach his forehead as she planted a kiss. "I'm sorry if I sounded like I was accusing you of anything. I was worried about your brother."

"Don't tell me that. Tell Dean." Sam looped his arms around his mother, kissing her back on the cheek as she nodded her understanding.

After calming down, the house returned to normal. Sam escaped upstairs to study, their father made his way outside to work on one of his many landscaping projects in their perfect lawn, and their mother went about her usual daily cleaning ritual. All was quiet for several hours until a rattling crash brought everyone back together outside the door to the den.


	7. Chapter 7

_**I just reposted this chapter because I realized I'd left something in there that wasn't supposed to be there. I'm sure it made the ending seem just a little more confusing than normal. Sorry bout that!**_

_Arrrrgh, writer's block is the worst. I'm in my 'tying up key pieces before I move on to the major story' zone, and for some reason that's the worst for me. So, hopefully this isn't too bad. Next chapter will get into the nitty gritty of why Dean's here and how he'll get back. This also leads me to a point where I want some reader suggestions. I'm just curious to know how many people want him to stay here versus how many want him to go back. So let me know, so I have a better idea where I should head. Hope you enjoy! _

Despite having the farthest to come, Sam was the first at the door, having sprinted down from his room and physically jumped over the stair rail the minute he heard the crash. But his parents weren't far behind, and Sam was just gripping the doorknob when they arrived. Panic escalated when, from inside the room, they could hear Dean's frustrated cries. "This is crap! Absolute piece of crap."

Another crash followed and Sam glanced questioningly at his parents as he turned the knob. "Dean? You alright there?" Swinging the door wide Sam and his parents could finally see the cause of the crash. After an initial assessment that assured them Dean was OK, they had no choice but to laugh.

Dean looked up sheepishly from amidst the scattered mess of CD's that he'd tossed angrily onto the floor. For the second time that day his newly trademarked "hi guys," shot innocently from his mouth and, blushing, Dean set the remaining CD's he held back onto the table. But there was no hiding the mess he had already created. At least half the CD's lay strewn around him on the floor, blocking him in. Several were cracked where he'd already rolled over them in his fervor.

"Dean, what the hell, man?" Sam demanded, crouching down to pick up some of the salvageable discs.

"They're all crap," Dean spat out, grabbing another stack of the discs and flashing them dramatically in front of his brother's eyes, then lifting them higher so his parents could see too. "Greenday? he questioned in disgust, tossing the disc aside. "Fall Out Boy?" he added, discarding it as well. "_Eminem?_"

"What's your point?" The confusion in Sam's face wasn't an act, and their parents had responded the same way as Sam. "They're all yours. We brought your whole entertainment system from your apartment."

"Well he– _I_ sure had terrible taste in music. Where's my Metalica? ACDC?"

Sam shook his head apologetically, crossing his arms as he did so.

"The Eagles?" Dean pleaded pathetically. "Don't I have anything even remotely out of that generation?"

"I think you might have a Madonna CD in there somewhere," Sam teased. "Like a Virgin."

Rolling his eyes, Dean pushed forward, plastic cracking loudly as his wheels crushed the many cases still littering the wood floor. "Not even close. Come on Sam, we've got some shopping to do. I can't think without my music." Dean halted, having passed his brother and now finding himself face to face with two still very shocked parents.

"Who are you?" John Winchester asked in a hushed voice, studying his oldest son with exaggerated curiosity. "And what have you done with my son?"

_Shit. Shitshitshit. What do I say? He'll never believe the truth. Hell, I don't even know if I believe the truth. _

He couldn't help but chuckle at Dean's 'deer caught in the headlight' gaze, but Dean was saved from his panic when his father continued to speak. "Do you have any idea how worried we were about you? And here you are, acting as if nothing happened. You're not reacting at all like the psychiatrists told us you would. And you're sure as hell not reacting the way your mother and I thought you would."

"Oh, that," Dean replied, shrugging his shoulders nonchalantly. "I don't know. I guess I'm just happy to be alive." _Or maybe I have bigger things on my mind. Like where I am. And how do I get back to where I'm from. Besides, I'll be damned if I let you people see me cry. I'll worry about myself, thank you very much. _

Whether they believed him or not, the parents mercifully decided to let the conversation slide, and gave both Dean and Sam passage from the den. "You're going out then?" their mother asked.

Dean nodded. "Gotta get some decent music. That stuff sucks."

Heading purposefully toward the front of the house, Dean didn't notice when their mother caught Sam by the collar of his shirt and pulled him back. "Keep an eye on him," she ordered. "I don't think he's in his right mind."

_You have no idea._ Sam grimaced at her; the best he could do under the circumstances. "Don't worry Mom. I'll take care of him." He sprinted off to catch up with Dean.

"Get the keys, dork," Dean ordered, struggling with the front door.

"I've already got them," Sam announced, jingling his key chain in front of Dean's face.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Not _your_ keys, Sammy-boy. _My_ keys."

Sam gaped incredulously at Dean, taking the time to study him intently. "Dean, you've never let me drive your car. Ever."

"Yeah, and I wouldn't be starting now except I'd rather let you drive my car then me pop a shoulder out of joint trying to get into your torture trap again. So I'm gonna suck it up for now."

"But Sam," Dean added, anxiously watching his too eager brother pocket his keys. "If you get even one tiny little scratch on my car..."

Interrupting his threat, Sam groaned loudly, giving his brother a playful shove out the front door. "Dean, I'm not gonna hurt your precious little car," he mocked.

The garage door hadn't even opened entirely before Dean was racing through the opening towards his long missed Impala, for once grateful for the wheelchair because it meant needing less of an opening to get through. Forgetting entirely that Sam was even there, Dean flung himself at the car, inspecting every inch as he purred and cooed at her. "Daddy's home, baby. I'm never leaving you again." He had to give credit where credit was due. Sam and their father had taken exceptional care of the car. It actually looked even better than it did in his world. Of course, this world didn't have monsters and demons lurking around every corner, ready to throw the nearest cold body against his baby, denting her up. "You waxed it?"

"Couple times," Sam assured him, coming up behind Dean to unlock the door. "And we washed it once a week, even though it never left the garage. Dad didn't want you thinking we'd neglected the car."

"Thanks." Dean didn't know what else to say. More and more he was beginning to feel as though he had misjudged this world's parents. For all intents and purposes they were virtually perfect. A far cry from what he'd actually grown up with.

Sam's pursed his lips, humbly accepting Dean's gratitude. He didn't like the idea of being thanked for something he'd done so willingly. "You would have done the same for me. Now are we going or not?"

"We're going," Dean assured him, sliding his butt carefully across the seat of the wheelchair and into the passenger seat. "But we're not getting music. We're meeting Laura. She's at some restaurant... Griswalds, I think she said."

The wheelchair was carefully folded and placed in the back seat of the car as Sam nodded. "Yeah, I know the place. Local hangout. We used to go there all the time." Sam paused, realization hitting him. "Did you plan that whole thing just to get out of the house?"

A sly smirk played on Dean's face as Sam climbed into the driver's seat. "Well you sure are quick," Dean teased. "Nothing gets past you. I called Laura after I woke up. I knew she'd be frantic when she found out I'd left the hospital."

Eyeing Dean with concern, Sam gripped the steering wheel more tightly. "Dean, you do remember that this isn't the same Laura that you were seeing in your dimension. She doesn't have your memories."

Puffing out his chest, Dean exuded confidence. "Don't worry, little brother. I've got the Winchester charm. She may not have those memories, but we'll create new ones."

"And then what," Sam demanded, slamming the brakes a little too hard at a red light, and throwing Dean forward against his seatbelt. "What are you going to do when you figure this whole mess out? Are you just going to go back to your world as if you'd never been here? Just forget about us? Will _my_ Dean return just as confused as you are now? What the hell is going to happen!"

Dean was silent, unbidden tears welling in his eyes. "I don't know," he whispered, voice hoarse as he fought the lump forming in his throat. "I wish I had the answers to this, but I just don't know."

Sam persisted. "But if you leave, _our_ Dean _will_ return in your place, right? I mean, he's not just gonna disappear from our lives completely. Right?"

"Sam, I said I don't know!" Dean snapped, smacking his hand against the dashboard and making the younger boy jump. But guilt overcame him. _Poor kid. He didn't ask for any of this. This isn't _my_ Sam. I have to keep reminding myself of that. He's not used to all this stuff. I should consider myself lucky that he's even giving me the time of day as crazy as all this must sound._ "Hey Sam, I'm sorry," Dean said more gently. "I didn't mean to snap at you. I just...I don't know what's gotten into me."

"You don't have to explain," Sam monotoned, eyes straight ahead on the road. "I'm sorry I pushed." _I just don't understand what's going on. Let me in, Dean. I want to help! I just don't know if I want you to go until I know what will happen when you're gone. I don't want there to be no Dean. I couldn't take it._ _I'd rather there be this Dean, rather than no Dean at all. _"We're here."

"Sam." The pleading tone in Dean's voice was unmistakable, but Sam wasn't ready to hear him out. "SAM!"

Instead of giving him a response, Sam silently pulled the chair from the back of the car and opened it, leaving it just within Dean's reach before stalking off. "Sam, please," Dean tried again. "I'm sorry!"

By now, Laura had realized the boys were outside and she appeared in the doorway of the little restaurant, smiling from ear to ear. Her smile quickly faded as she watched Sam storming off down the sidewalk, away from Dean and the restaurant. "What's with him?" she asked innocently, offering her assistance with the car door.

"What isn't with him," Dean replied, bitterness heavy in his voice. But then he sighed. "I said some things that he took the wrong way. Or maybe he took them the right way. I don't know."

"Do you want me to go after him?" she offered.

Dean shook his head. "Nah. He'll come to his senses sooner or later. He just needs some time to cool off." He shoved forward, heading towards the door and cocking his head with a seductive 'come hither' nod. "Besides, maybe after we talk I'll have more answers for him when he shows up."

Laura held the door for him and led him back to a private table in the back corner of the restaurant. Dean followed, finally realizing what Sam had gone through that day when he'd dragged him out to lunch. The first obstacle he ran into was the strap of a ladies purse, and he silently cursed her as he struggled to disentangle the unusually long strap from the wheel of the chair. _Bitch. Keep your damn stuff out of my freakin way!_ But he pursed his lips, still bottling his emotions. It would be bad enough if Sam saw him upset, but Laura? He had his work cut out just to romance her again. _Won't this be a trip, trying to win the same girl twice. But I'm up for the challenge. _

"Dean, I gotta tell you. This whole thing, about different dimensions, I'm still having a hard time grasping it. I mean...everything fits, so if you're crazy then I must be too, but it's still hard to believe."

He'd watched her sit across from him, clasping her hands together and resting her chin on top of them. She regarded him with a mixture of curiosity, concern and some fascination. Dean chuckled. "Sweetheart, as crazy as this may seem, I guarantee you this is all real."

And then she opened the door Dean had been hoping for and dreading all at the same time. "So tell me how you and I knew each other in your ...world."

Dean grinned, and began the story. He gave her all the details of how he and Sam had come to town to hunt the Weston House stalker, told her about killing the brain creature and her part in it. He told her about Sam getting hurt, and how she'd been there for the two of them through it all. He told her how she'd been the first girl he'd ever told about his hunting, and that he'd known she was the girl for him when she accepted it without flinching. He told her she'd been his rock. And when he was finished explaining their relationship Laura was staring at him with a starry-eyed gaze.

"Do you mind if I ask you a question," she cooed, reaching for one of his shaking hands. She continued when he nodded, bashfully averting her eyes. "Do you, um...do you think you might like to pick up where you and she– _I_ left off?"

It was all he could do to keep his jaw from dropping to the table. _This was way too easy. There's got to be a catch. _He could barely squeak out an answer, but finally a stunned 'uh huh' emitted from his slackened mouth. _Oh yeah,_ he gloated to himself. _Even in a wheelchair you've still got it. Dude, you rock._ "I mean yes," he added, finally finding his voice. _Maybe this world wouldn't be so bad to stay in after all._


	8. Chapter 8

Dean awoke the next morning to the smell of a hot breakfast wafting into his bedroom. He couldn't remember the last time he'd smelled a home cooked breakfast, let alone tasted one. The closest he and Sam ever came to home cooking was staying in their hotel room and filling a bowl with cereal and milk.

A light knock sounded from outside his door, and at his beckoning, his mother peeked her head into the room. "I'll have breakfast ready soon. I just thought I'd come offer you a hand getting up."

Blurry eyes tried to focus on her as he debated on his response. He didn't need help. He'd never needed help. Dean was used to being the protector, the helper. Instinct told him to deny her offer, and it almost slipped from his lips before he saw her face give way to need. She didn't just _want _to help him. She _needed_ to help him. She needed to feel a connection with the son who'd come so close to being lost to her forever. And as Dean gave it more thought, he realized he could use his own connection to her. He'd missed out on so many years with her, but here she was now. Standing right in front of him. His mother. How could he say no?

Slowly, Dean nodded his head, inviting her towards him with the motion. "Yeah, I think I could use some help. I, um...I had trouble with my pants last night, since I can't...stand...on my own."

Relief came over his mother as she crossed to the dresser. "What do you feel like wearing today?"

"Well, I feel like wearing jeans. But something tells me they aren't going be the easiest to get on. So what else is in there?"

She rummaged through the drawer and pulled out a handful of 'Adidas' track pants in every color ever made. "You've got a ton of these," she offered. "And t-shirts to match. They would be comfortable."

Dean shrugged, indicating that he didn't care what color she chose for him. None of them were anything he'd be caught wearing before, but at this point he'd take just about anything if it meant comfort and ease of wear.

As she returned to the bed, Dean pulled off the covers revealing his boxer covered legs arranged spastically on the bed. He swallowed the lump that seemed to form every time he looked at or thought about his uncooperative legs. In the beginning, he'd barely given it any thought, his mind steadfastly driven toward getting out of this dimension at all costs. But he was quickly discovering that his problem couldn't easily be pushed to the back of his mind. _My fucking legs don't work anymore!_ his brain screamed. _And unless I can figure out this whole mess I'm gonna be stuck like this for the rest of my life. _

The pants went on with relative ease, despite Dean's continued reluctance for assistance. And then he grudgingly allowed his mother to help him into the waiting wheelchair. It wasn't that he didn't appreciate the help, and he was really beginning to love spending time with her, but he'd never let another soul help him in his whole life. Clearing his head of the tender moments that threatened to be desired, Dean clasped the rims of the chair before his mother could circle around and grab the handles.

"So what did you make for breakfast?" he asked, wanting to show her that he still cared despite his misgivings about overindulging her desires to help. "It smells really good."

"Coffee cake - your favorite. And fruit. Poached eggs. Sausage and bacon..." she trailed off, blushing as she noticed Dean's eyes widen. "Yeah, well I guess I might have gone a bit overboard. I just... I wanted to do something special for you."

As she stepped towards the door, embarrassed and muttering that she needed to check on the food, Dean rolled forward and caught her hand. "Mom–" _Mom. I can't believe I'm sitting here looking into my mother's eyes. _"Mom, stop. I, uh– thanks. It sounds wonderful."

He watched her shoulders relax. And then saw her take a deep breath before crouching in front of him. Instead of releasing his hand, she clenched harder, joining their two with her other hand. It was as if something had clicked and she finally felt comfortable enough to actually talk to him, to talk with him about what had happened. "Sweetie are you OK? I mean really, _truly_ OK?"

Instinct told him to break eye contact; ordered him to sever the emotional link that was becoming undeniable between himself and this virtual stranger that walked around with his mother's face. But lately his instincts hadn't been worth much, and he found himself staring harder into her eyes. He wanted to say yes. To assure her that, absolutely, he was fine. Better than fine. But he couldn't. _Oh God, what is she doing to me? I'm turning into a freakin chick!_ "I'm not really doing all that well," he admitted, immediately regretting the confession. But what could he do. His mouth had taken on a life all of its own, and the words were just spouting like lava.

"Well sweetheart, why didn't you say something sooner? You know you can always come to me and your father with problems." She shuffled forward, releasing one of her hands so it could plant itself gently against his cheek, thumb massaging lovingly.

Dean shrugged again, struggling in his fight to quiet himself. "I know," he replied in hushed tones, finally able to break the eye contact, but still unable to break the spew of emotional admittances emitting from his cursed mouth. "I was just scared... of what you might think of me." _Oh My God! What the hell am I saying? Where is this coming from?_

Her face contorted into deep felt concern and love for her oldest son as the other hand reached up to his face as well. Flat palms firmly gripped his cheeks, making him look at her again as she spoke to him with unfaltering intensity. "Dean, honey, your father and I love you no-matter-what. We could never think anything of you other than how amazingly brave you are. How absolutely proud of you we are. I can't even begin to imagine what you're going through. But you've been so tough; you're so strong. That's the _only _thing we would ever think of you."

Dean angrily swiped at the tears that had dared to fall from his eyes. _Great. Just freakin great. I'm crying like a little baby, now. Terrific._ But no one had ever talked to him like that. Not even Sam. The sincerity; the love; the admiration. He'd never before had anyone speak to him with the emotion that only a mother could exude. And not just any mother. _His_ mother.

"You really mean that?" Dean asked, feeling like he was four again, wide eyes staring at his mother after she had scolded him for the china incident. Her final words in that conversation had been words of forgiveness and love. She was angry with him for his carelessness, but she would always love him. Nothing would ever change that. But then she'd died, and Dean hadn't been given the opportunity to test that bond...until now.

"Sweetheart, of course I love you," She assured him. "Always and forever. You're my son." She stood, drawing Dean's head toward her and kissed the top of his head. He leaned into her, reveling in the kiss and wanting more. He wanted to feel her strong, mother's arms wrapped tightly around him. He wanted to remember what it felt like. He needed it.

The embrace lasted for several minutes while Dean completely dropped his guard, allowing emotions that had been bottled inside him for years to finally emerge. He hadn't realized just how much he missed his mother until he'd gotten her back. All those years that he'd had to improvise, being both mother and father to himself and Sammy as their father focused one hundred percent on his hunting efforts. He remembered the nights he'd woken up from a nightmare, only to lull himself back to sleep for lack of a mother's soothing words. He remembered being sick, flu's, colds, chicken pox; but he'd had to push through them of his own accord. She wasn't there to feed him hot soup and insist that he take his medicine and just be there to care. That had been his burden, and his alone. There were nights when Sam had fearfully called out for help, and Dean found himself wishing a mother was to wrap her arms around the small boy and reassure him that everything would be alright. But he'd had to shoulder that weight as well, and no amount of explaining why Sam didn't have a mother to comfort him could ease the pain in either boy's mind.

The pictures Dean had flipped through in the family photo album flashed into his mind, too, and Dean realized there were emotions he hadn't even realized he was bottling. Yearnings for what wasn't, but could have been, now slammed into his subconscious with the weight of a thousand boulders. The birthdays his mother had missed. The dances she'd failed to ready him for. All the soccer games and baseball games he'd never actually played because she wasn't there to enroll him in the teams. She wasn't there to encourage him. She wasn't there to support him. She just wasn't there. Because she'd been killed by a demon. And because she wasn't there, his father hadn't been there either. Dead or alive, his father had always been with his mother; her spirit.

But she was here now. "Come on, your breakfast is getting cold."

Sniffling through the residual tears, Dean finally allowed her to release her grasp and lead him to the dining room, suddenly feeling empty as their connection was broken. Sam was already floating around the table, barely containing his desire to munch on the array of delicious foods arranged on the table.

"I pulled the coffee cake from the oven," he announced as his mother appeared. "I didn't want it to burn."

Their mother smiled warmly, standing on tiptoes to reach her younger son's cheek, painting it with her trademark peck. "Thank you, honey. Can you call your father for me?"

Sam nodded, sprinting from the room in search of the missing link to their breakfast feast, calling loudly for the man.

"Dean, honey, come to the table. Here, let me help you." He allowed her to glide the wheelchair into the empty gap at the table that used to contain one of the six matching carved Oak chairs. His chair. His place. Not only was there an actual dining room table, but he had a designated spot there. Dean had history there.

Sam returned to the room with his father in tow and Dean sat back, continuing to watch the familial exchanges that were going on around him. "This smells wonderful, dear," his father voiced, kissing his wife on the lips. "You did a great job."

She smiled, stars of happiness sparkling in her eyes. "Anything for my boys," she announced. "I'm just happy to have my whole family together again."

"I know how you feel," John answered his wife. "And I'm especially grateful that Dean's back with us." He pulled out a chair, the one beside Dean, and sat down, his strong hand reaching out and squeezing Dean's shoulder affectionately as he did so. "You sure had us scared there for a while, son. You have no idea how glad we are that you're awake and back home."

Dean grinned at his father. _His _father. The father that he would have become if things had gone differently twenty-two years ago. "I'm glad to be here, too, Dad."

An extremely hungry Sam took that opportunity to reach across the table, grabbing at the plate of greasy bacon only to find his hand swatted by his mother. "Can't you wait just a minute," she teased playfully, but with a hint of sternness in her voice. "At least give your brother first pick."

"But Mooom," Sam whined, again reaching for the bacon. "I'm starving. You guys took forever to get out here. He's not gonna miss a little bacon."

"It's alright, Mom. I don't mind," Dean offered, eagerly soaking up the interaction. "I think I'll have a piece of coffee cake first."

She served him a large square of the gooey cake and then set an egg on his plate as well. He speared a bite with his fork, chewing slowly as chatter and conversation and laughter filled his ears. Sam had begun telling an amusing story he remembered from his law class and their father was heartily laughing at the tale. And Dean smiled to himself, all thoughts of ghosts and demons and alternate dimensions pushed to the farthest regions of his brain. None of that mattered right now as he experienced true happiness. All his life he'd wondered what it would be like to have normal, and now he knew. This was normal.


	9. Chapter 9

**I don't own anything within this story relevant to Supernatural or its characters, but the story itself is mine and mine alone. **

_I have to say, you guys totally impress me with your on the ball questions. This was always intended to be the "friends" chapter, but you timed your inquiries perfectly. I hadn't forgotten about them, I just didn't want to press my luck having Dean go out to meet them too soon. I'm already stretching things with him leaving the hospital in such a timely fashion. So here are your answers. Hope it's satisfying. Also, to answer your question Xdaisy chainX, coffee cake is basically a sweet breakfast cake, so named because people tend to drink coffe when eating it. It usually is made with ooey gooey sugary goodness, and sometimes has nuts or fruits in it, too. I'm trying to think what you could compare it to, UKwise, but my brain is fried right now. If I come up with something, I'll post it in a later chapter. Just know that you would love it if you tried it. And on with the story..._

Dean looked up from the stacks of books and papers strewn around him and eyed Sam with irritation. "Dude, what the hell's your problem?" he snapped. "You've been jumpy ever since we got here, and I'm really getting sick of you staring at me every two minutes. What do you want?"

Bouncing his legs nervously under the table, Sam shrugged. "Sorry," he muttered, his refusal to make eye contact blatantly obvious. He looked around, scanning the shelves of the library as though he expected the books to fly at him the minute he looked away.

"Sam, what is it?" Dean demanded. "Just say it already."

Taking a deep, hesitant breath and letting it out slowly, Sam finally looked at Dean. "I-told-your-friends-we-would-meet-them-at-the-bar-tonight," he admitted, quickly stringing the words together in one long breath which he then held as he prepared himself for the attack.

As he'd expected, Dean's anger shot at him in a fiery blast. "YOU DID WHAT?"

Sam's face dropped, eyes giving the sincere apology that he feared his mouth would not. "They called the house this morning. Dean, they wanted to see you. What did you expect me to tell them?"

"You could have told them anything else," Dean accused. "Tell them we're busy. Tell them I'm too tired. Hell, Sam, tell them I moved to Beijing. I don't really care what you tell them as long as it isn't 'sure, we'll go'."

"You've never been too busy for them before," Sam protested, desperate to make Dean understand. "And the fact that you were alert enough to check yourself out of the hospital a day after waking from a coma is pretty much a sure fire guarantee that you aren't too tired. They want to see you, Dean. They're your friends for God's sake."

"No...Sam. They're not _my_ friends. They're _Dean's_ friends. _Your_ Dean. I don't even know them."

"Maybe not, but they know you. And _my_ Dean isn't here right now. You owe them at least this much. You owe _me_ this much."

Dean sighed, his brain going into overdrive. _Damn it, Sammy. Of all the things you could ask of me..._ "You don't understand, Sam. I don't _do_ friends." His voice dropped, and Sam had to strain forward as Dean admitted a secret few would ever know. "I never really had friends."

Sam's mouth dropped a few centimeters and his eyebrows knitted together, deep in concentration.

"Don't look at me like that," Dean growled, finding the anger zone in his voice again.

"Like what?" Sam asked innocently.

"Like you pity me. Like you feel _sorry_ for me. Don't. I never had time for friends."

The look of pity and concern didn't leave Sam's face easily, but he joined it with arched eyebrows and a slightly mischievous glean in his eye. "So here's your chance," he hinted, refusing to let Dean gain the upper hand.

"My chance for what?" Dean glowered, his face already buried back in the books again, determined to find an answer to his problems so he could escape from this nightmare.

"Your chance to have friends. Your chance to find out what it feels like to have other people care about you; people outside your family."

"But I don't _know _them," Dean repeated. His gaze returned to Sam, glaring determinedly at his younger brother. _Drop it, Sam. Just drop it. Please._

"Maybe not. But they know you. And I can help."

As much as he hated to admit it, Dean could tell Sam was desperate. For whatever reason, Sam was determined to get Dean to the bar that night. _It might be fun, _his subconscious prodded. _And at least you can get a beer. What's the worst that can happen?_ An exasperated groan escaped his lips. He might be willing to give in, but he sure as hell wasn't going to make it easy on the boy's conscience. "How are _you_ going to help me?"

Sam beamed, eagerness exuding from him. "I'll coach you. And I won't leave your side all night, so you'll never not know anyone. They might think you're a little out of it, but they'll never know you're not their Dean. If we can fool Mom and Dad, I'm sure we can fool your friends."

Dean sighed, finally relenting to the pleading puppy dog eyes Sam had begun shooting at him. "Alright. Fine. So tell me what I need to know."

Sam began, sadness in his voice and some fear. He'd almost lost Dean in that accident, and the memories still haunted him. Dean had gone to a college football game, spending the better part of the morning drinking and tail-gaiting with frat buddies and other friends, and later watching the game. Their team won in an intense fight that led to a double overtime, and celebrations had continued long after the game. It was late when Dean had piled into the silver Mustang with four other friends. He wasn't driving. But he was drunk, and so was everyone else in the car, including Scott who had slid behind the wheel. Concern for their safety had been the farthest thing from everyone's mind as the car pulled onto the interstate for the twenty minute drive back home. The driver's foot had launched itself against the gas pedal, determined to cut their time in half. There was another party to get to, and more drinking to be had.

Sam didn't know exactly what had caused the accident, and the accounts from the other boys were foggy at best, but he outlined the details that were most clear. The car had swerved, whether to miss something or to realign itself with the road they didn't know, but Scott never managed to recover from the swerve and the car had plunged through the guardrail at ninety five miles an hour, rolling twice before landing on its roof twenty feet down the embankment. He'd never even tried to brake. It had taken close to three hours, twenty-six members of the cities emergency personnel, and the jaws of life to extract all five boys from the ball of crumpled metal that used to be recognizable as a car. Scott never made it to the hospital. And Dean was comatose before arriving in the ER.

Amazingly, the other three had all left the hospital the next day, but not without lasting injuries. Luke, Dean's best friend, had suffered a shattered knee cap and torn ACL topped off with several cracked ribs. Steven left with a broken collar bone and a broken nose. And Colin had spent four weeks in a neck brace from severe whiplash, combined with a cast for his broken wrist. None of the three had escaped concussion, and their bodies had been covered head to toe with nasty bruises and gashes.

As he finished describing the accident, Sam needed to pause, dropping his head heavily into his waiting hands. He rubbed his face, trying to hide moist eyes.

"It sounds horrifying," Dean voiced, shuddering at Sam's description.

"It was worse living it," his brother practically whispered. "We thought you were going to die. You almost did. Twice."

Gripping the wheels, Dean pushed himself around the table, stopping when he was facing the younger man. A hand reached out, settling itself comfortingly on Sam's knee. "I'm sorry you had to go through that. I'm so sorry."

"It's not your fault," Sam replied, still looking down, studying Dean's hand on his knee. "You weren't _you_."

"I know, Sam. But it was still painful for you. You have to know..." Dean's voice cracked as he remembered holding _his_ Sam in his arms, dying. "I've been there," he said gently. "Where you were. Only...I didn't get your result. You– Sam..._my_ Sam...he died. I held him in my arms and watched him die. There was nothing I could do. I've never felt so helpless in all my life."

The boy finally looked up at Dean, salty tear trails staining his cheeks. "So why...why do you want to go back there? From what you've told me, there's nothing left for you. Why don't you stay here?"

Dean shook his head, his face contorting into confusion. "Honestly, Sam, I don't know. I've been wondering that myself lately. But I can't make a decision until I know exactly what I'm up against. We have to keep at this for now."

Wiping the moisture from his eyes, Sam put on a brave face. He nodded, acknowledging that he understood, whether he agreed with it or not. And Dean felt it best to change the subject for the time being. "So this get together tonight...any reason why I can't call Laura and invite her to join us?" He grinned suggestively at his brother, eyebrows rising in rapid motion in trademark Dean fashion. Don't dwell on the bad. Make the bad good.

xxxxxxx

As the trio approached the neon lit entrance to the bar Dean allowed a half chuckle/half snort to emerge from his mouth and nose. He felt like he was experiencing a moment of de ja vous, but he couldn't share the humor with either of his companions because they hadn't been there. The bar they'd gone to, to celebrate Sammy moving a toe, had been called Jake's Bar. And the bar they were approaching now...Mike's Bar. Shoving himself toward the entrance, Dean contemplated issuing the same groaner joke he'd made that night, wondering if it would illicit identical responses. But in the end, he decided it was a part of his past that he didn't care to share; it was a rare moment of unadulterated laughter he and Sam had shared, and he felt it deserved to remain as such.

Before opening the door for him, Sam lay a hand his shoulder, halting Dean's forward momentum. "Remember," Sam warned. "Keep and ear out for my signals. I'll do my best to greet everyone of them by name, but some stuff may be out of my control. Just keep and eye on me and I'll get you all the information you need."

Dean nodded nervously, his knuckles white as he gripped the wheels of the chair. _What the hell am I getting myself into. This better be worth it._ He took a deep breath, plastering his face with a mask of confidence, amazed at his fear. He'd faced every kind of demon 'un'known to man. He'd voiced spells and incantations chanted only by the most powerful witches and sorcerers. He could chat it up with the best of them when he hustled pool and poker. But greeting the friendly faces of those considered his best friends absolutely terrified him.

"You think you're ready for this?" Laura crouched beside him, prying his fingers from the rim of the wheels and intertwining them in her own.

Her touch sent shockwaves of comfort and confidence through his body, and Dean managed to reassure himself. _She's amazing. One touch, and I feel like nothing can hurt me. God, I love this girl._ "Yeah," he answered, voice firm. "I'm ready. Let's do this."

Dean shoved through the door and immediately aimed himself toward the bar. _If I'm gonna do this, I'm certainly not going through with it sober._ But he didn't make it halfway before hearing his name shouted from the opposite side of the room. He spun, looking for where the voice had come from and immediately hearing Sam's voice in his ear. "The guy coming at you, with the cane, that's Luke. He's your best friend, so you definitely need to know his name."

Dean watched as the man made his way over to him, focusing more on the limping gait than the eager face. He couldn't make eye contact, afraid that his secret would come spilling out of him if he let the guy in. But Luke didn't care. He wasn't worried about what deep dark secrets were held in his best friends mind. All he cared about was that Dean was awake. Alive. Sitting right in front of him.

"Dean - man, it's great to see you!" he boomed, dimpled smile filling his entire face. "I can't believe you're out of the hospital already. You look great!" He leaned down, one arm wrapping around Dean's body and pounding him on the back as Dean stiffened. People didn't touch him. More specifically, guys didn't touch him.

_He's your best friend,_ Dean forced himself to remember. _You have to say something. _"Luke, it's great to see you too. Um...how's the knee?"

Luke righted himself, hand tapping against the injured limb as he referred to it. "Still hurts, man. I've got another surgery and months worth of physical therapy before I can hope to walk norm–"

He hesitated, realizing what he'd said. Remembering his best friend was sitting paralyzed in a wheelchair. Knowing that Dean would never walk again, even with therapy. His hand drew to his mouth, eyes widening in embarrassed horror. "Oh my God, Dean, I'm so sorry. I just– I didn't mean–"

Dean held up a hand, successfully ending Luke's stammering. "It's OK. You don't need to censor yourself around me. I'm fine." He'd lied. He wasn't fine. He hated the fact that this guy was standing in front of him with a knee injury that would eventually heal when he couldn't even feel his knee. But that's what friends say to each other, right? They make each other feel better about themselves. They reassure each other.

Luke exhaled, relief written on his face. Dean had done his job. "Well then...why don't you introduce me to this lovely little lady you've got clinging to your shoulder. When the hell did you find time to find yourself a woman?"

Hand shooting up to join with Laura's, Dean paused, smirking inwardly. _Well, you see, I came from another dimension_ _where she was my girlfriend..._

Laura spoke for him, voicing the first lie of the evening. "We knew each other years ago, and then we reconnected in the hospital. I was his nurse. I guess you could say it was just...meant to be. I'm Laura."

She accepted the hand Luke offered to her, grinning when he offered his own words of advice. "Keep a close eye on my friend here. He's got a wandering hand...if you know what I mean."

"I'll do my best," Laura assured him, proving her affection for Dean with a quick kiss on the cheek.

"So, come on over," Luke said, motioning them to follow him. "Everyone's here already, and they're dying to see you. We were all totally floored when Sam told us you'd checked yourself out of the hospital. I mean, dude, I knew you were pig-headed, but leaving so soon. That's crazy, man. But you look good. You do. You look really good."

Dean followed, tuning out Luke's rambling. Up ahead, he could see the welcoming grins as the rest of the group noticed them arrivign. And his mind was whirling with the thought of actually having a friend. Friends. Plural. Luke had settled into their comfortable relationship within seconds of spotting Dean. He actually didn't even have to settle into it. It just came naturally to him. Dean couldn't contain his smile. He had a family. A mother, and a father. Sam was alive. Laura was here. And now, he had friends. Life couldn't be better. So why couldn't he shake the nagging pull to return to his other life?


	10. Chapter 10

**I do not own Supernatural, nor do I own the Winchester brothers. But a girl can wish...can't she?**

_Hi guys! Wow so many questions. I really want to answer you guys, especially because_

_some of you are asking the same questions. Trust me, I understand your confusion. All I can do is promise you that I will sum everything up by the end of the story. I'm taking your confusion to heart, so I will be sure everything gets answered...if it doesn't, I'll just have to write another chapter...yes? The only thing I will say, is that I will bring some note of Jess into this just for you guys. On with the story..._

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_Heavy fog swirled in wispy ringlets as Dean made his way through the open space in front of him. There were no landmarks, no directions. Just fog; as far as he could see in every direction. The fog was thick; so thick he couldn't see his feet as he looked down. His hands were barely visible unless he placed them directly in front of his face. He could feel the clamminess on his skin. He could feel it invading his lungs, his chest tightening with the dampness in the air. "Sam! Sam, where are you?" He called out, voice echoing through the denseness, waiting for an answer that never came. _

_So he continued on, floating through the fog that consumed him, calling for the brother that was lost to him. He'd heard him once. That's what prompted him to enter the swirling maze in the first place. Sam's weak, distant voice had entered his head, pleading for Dean to come find him. And he'd come. He'd entered. He'd searched._

_The ethereal voice suddenly filled his mind, surrounding him from all sides, and Dean spun quickly in search of the source. He saw a light, faint at first, but it grew stronger. And there was Sammy, floating above him, beckoning him. "Come back to me, Dean. I need you. Please." The words echoed in surreal quality, entering Dean's ears repeatedly. "Please...please...please..."_

"_I'm coming Sam. I'm here." Dean stepped forward, reaching for his brother. Their hands met, but went right though each other, leaving only distorted air and stretched colors. And then there were more. Sam wasn't alone any longer. Turning slowly, Dean could see other faces hovering high up. Faces of victims; ones he had saved, ones he'd tried to save, ones that had died. They all floated in an out of his line of sight, waving_ _him toward them. Pleas for their savior to come to them. To come with them. He could feel their hands on his shoulders, intangible, but still there somehow. They tugged at him, hollow words filling his head, bouncing around his skull, chanting his name, begging for his help. 'Dean, we need you. Dean help us. We're lost without you. Please Dean."_

"Dean. Dean, please. Wake up. Dean!" The tightness on his shoulder intensified, pulling harder, and he flailed his arms. They had to get off. He couldn't take it; didn't want it. They didn't want _him_. They wanted a hunter. And _he_ was the hunter.

"Get off me! Please. Let go." He whimpered, struggling from the hands that were determined to pull him in. "I want to stay!"

"DEAN!" The voice grew firmer, attached itself to a body. Dean's eyes shot open, trying to focus on the face in front of him. Relief washed over him as Sam's worried face came into view, and he let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding.

"Sam. You're here." He reached above him, clamping a hand around the grab bar above him and pulled himself into a sit, bracing both arms behind him to maintain the position. He broke eye contact, suddenly embarrassed by the childish nightmare he'd just been pulled from. Dean didn't have nightmare's. That was Sam's thing. _Was. His _Sam had nightmare's. But this Sam seemed just about as well-adjusted as they came.

A week had passed in complete bliss, and somehow Dean had managed to totally shove his dilemma to the back of his mind. Everything had gone so perfectly the night of the get-together at the bar. Sure, a few of the guys had seemed uncomfortable around the wheelchair, staring too long, offering too much help. Dean had felt somewhat babied. But that didn't really matter, because he was being babied by his _friends_. He had friends. And the next day Luke had called, inviting them to a basketball game. Dean had been hesitant at first, the fact that he knew nothing about basketball making him worry that his secret would be expelled. But Sam had assured him that it was an easy game to learn. As long as he cheered when the rest of the crowd cheered Luke would be none the wiser.

There had been other activities that week, too. Family dinner's. More visits to the bar with his friends. He'd impressed them with his pool skills, brushing off the newly honed skill with an inane response that it was easier from his new angle. They had accepted it without flinching, no one even suspecting the real reason for the talent. He and Laura had done several movies, and even spent an unbelievable, yet slightly awkward, night at her apartment reassuring Dean that he 'still had it.'

Only the visits to the rehab facility interrupted the ultimate experience of normal, and Dean went grudgingly. It was the only time he thought of his other world, remembering Sam's own struggle for recovery. But oddly enough, a lot of the thoughts cursed his brother for being able to recover when he, himself, could not. Sam had always known there would be a possibility to walk again, and the exercises he and Harry had performed worked toward that goal. Dean would never walk. His therapist worked only on strength training exercises and coping exercises. He stretched the unfeeling limbs to their limit, keeping them limber only for ease of transport. The man had been noticeably surprised when Dean bench pressed his own weight on the first attempt, reveling at the idea that the boy hadn't lost more muscle mass during his six weeks unconscious. He'd told Dean in no uncertain terms that most patients could barely lift a five pound weight during the first week in therapy, and then eyed him with curiosity, analyzing him. Dean had shrugged it off, somehow convincing the man that it was just a fluke. _He_ was just a fluke.

Everyone in this world was ignorantly unaware of the haunts that went bump in the night. There were no questions, no accusations, because the ideas never even crossed their minds. They were much more willing to accept a lack of explanation than to develop idealistic answers to the haunting questions that surrounded Dean's very existence.

Everyone, that is, except for Dean. As he stared blankly through Sam, remembering the dream that had been so vivid it could have been reality, he was overcome with guilt at the fact that he'd allowed himself to forget. And not only had he forgotten, he'd accepted. He'd ignored the nagging feelings that something wasn't right, becoming so enamored with his new world that he'd accepted it as home. But this wasn't home. Not his home anyway. And the dream had been his subconscious' way of getting him back on track.

"Sam, we've gotta get back to the library," Dean insisted, lining the wheelchair up against the bed and sliding into it, the muscles in his shirtless upper body rippling as they strained against his full weight.

Reeling from shock, Sam chased after Dean, a few steps behind his brother as he made a beeline to the bathroom, splashing cold water on his face to wash away the sticky feel of residual sweat. "Wait. The library? I thought you'd gotten over all that crap. Everything's been so good."

Dean shook his head, frantically shoving himself from the room and to the dresser, pulling out fresh clothes. "Not over it. I just let myself get wrapped up in all this perfection, and managed to forget all of it. But I've remembered now. And I can't let myself get distracted again. Are you with me, or not?"

"I guess I'm with you." Pain-filled emotion spoke volumes in Sam's voice and body, but there was nothing he could do about Dean's determination. If he didn't help then Dean would just find another way.

"Then let's go," Dean ordered, making his way to the front door. "We'll grab breakfast on the way."

They called Laura on the way and she agreed to meet them. As Dean hung up the phone he considered her tone of voice. He'd heard it before. It was the same tone the other Laura had used when they had discussed his leaving, and that was just to leave town. Now he was planning on leaving the planet, maybe even the galaxy. He had no idea how this whole thing worked, but he knew he would never see these people again. They knew it, too.

Aside from the call to Laura, the first half of the drive into town was made in silence. But Dean's hesitant voice cut through the tension as the downtown buildings came into view. "Sam, do you mind if I ask you a question? I mean, it's not really personal. It just may be a little weird."

Breaking his gaze from the road Sam shot Dean a funny look. "Weirder than you jumping into my brother's body and coming from another universe?"

Dean laughed. "Touche. Alright, here it is. Are you now, or have you ever dated a girl named Jessica?"

"Not just dating. We're engaged," Sam offered eagerly, not even flinching as Dean dredged up another of his many 'psychic' moments. "Let me guess, your Sam dated her too?"

Dean nodded, confirming Sam's own suspicions. "Things didn't end so well for him, though. Just do me a favor and treat her right, OK? For him?"

Chewing on his bottom lip, Sam looked at Dean again. The way he spoke, Sam already knew the 'bad' ending that had occurred. "She died too, didn't she."

"Yeah," Dean answered quietly. "He watched her die. So will you do that for me? Will you take care of her?"

"Of course," Sam agreed. "She's the love of my life."

Dean smiled as the library came into view, relief washing over him. At least in one life Sammy would get the happy ending he deserved.

xxxxxxx

"Here's something," Laura chirped, trying desperately to feign enthusiasm as she searched for a way to send her new boyfriend back where he came from. She turned the monitor screen towards the boys, her finger pointing to one particular line. "That brain creature that you guys went up against...there's speculation that they hold transference powers. But it hasn't really been tested all that much because most of the victims die before they can experience their wishes. Maybe that's what happened...I mean, both you guys survived. And apparently that's unusual."

Reading the page over her shoulder, Dean shook his head, frustrated. "It sounds logical, but it was weeks before I showed up here. There was a whole other creature before anything happened. I didn't wake up here until I killed the Devils Elbow Destroyer and then watched Sam die. There's got to be more."

Laura turned back to the computer, entering more key words into the search engine while Sam and Dean continued to scour their own web sites. Another several minutes passed and then it was Sam's turn to display his screen. "I found another name for that Destroyer thing. It's called a Pathuma; some kind of mystical half panther half human thing. And it says these creature's also have transference powers. That's weird, right? That the only two beasts you went up against in that time period had transference powers?"

Dean inched closer, studying the page intently. "Yeah, that is weird," he allowed. "And I'm sure it has something to do with why I'm here. I just wish I knew what." He read more, ingesting every word on the screen. "Wait, you have to make a wish when your blood mixes with its blood. And the emotion has to come from the heart. It has to be genuine."

Hands clenched the wheels of his chair tightly, the rim digging itself firmly into the soft flesh. "Print that page, Sam. We'll need to take it with us."

"Sure." Sam sprang to action, clicking print on the toolbar and grabbing the printed result before Dean's choice of words registered fully in his mind. It wasn't so much _what_ he'd said as it was _how_ he'd said it. The printed pages were laid out on the table in front of Dean by shaking hands. Sam chose his own words carefully, already knowing the answer before he asked it, but still hoping he was wrong.

"Taking it with us?" he parroted. "You mean back home, right?"

He'd expected the response, but, to Sam, it still felt like a punch to the gut. "No, little brother. We're taking it with us to Missouri. Small town, known as Devil's elbow."


	11. Chapter 11

**I do not own Dean, Sam, or Supernatural. I do, however, own my mind and this is all a product of its twisted development. Hope you enjoy. **

_Hey guys, sorry it took me so long to post this. I had my nieces this weekend, and it's next to impossible to type anything when your computer has been taken over by the Sims. I tried to use this chapter as a means to clear up some of the questions you guys have been asking, and I hope the answers satisfy you. I'm definitely using a little poetic license with this, but I think they will suffice. Please let me know if you're still confused...at least more so than would be expected from a convoluted story such as this. Enjoy the chapter, and know that action will be coming soon in the next chapters. _

Sam wrung his hands tightly around the smooth steering wheel, nervously chewing on his bottom lip as he focused on the road ahead of him. They had been on the road already for four hours, and he had long ago begun to doubt his sanity for going along with Dean's convoluted scheme, but there wasn't much he could do about it now. In the seat beside him, Dean had spent the hours alternating between studying the map and reading and rereading the papers they had printed off. Before leaving the library, they had discovered several more web-sites with promising information and Dean had insisted on paper copies of every one before using his charm to kidnap his unsuspecting victims.

Looking in the rearview mirror, Sam could see that Laura had somehow managed to fall asleep, seemingly oblivious to how obscure their little trip really was. She had thought it would be 'fun.' An 'adventure.' So she had immediately picked up the phone and called in sick to work, procuring up a little cough and a gravelly voice to convince them of her illness.

A small sigh emerged from Sam's mouth, breaking the heavy silence and serving as an intro for him to talk. He looked at Dean. "There are signs for some restaurants up ahead. Could we maybe stop at one for some food?"

Dean nodded, happy to comply. "Of course. We never did have lunch."

Sam didn't want to press his luck, but he felt it necessary to try. "Do you, uh, think maybe that we're...far enough away to call Mom and Dad yet?"

"No way," Dean replied sternly, putting his hand on the shift knob as though that would prevent Sam from making the call. "We're still too close. They could make it in time to stop us."

"Dean, we have to call them," Sam pleaded, squeezing the steering wheel tighter. "They're gonna be worried sick! And they're gonna be so pissed off at us. Me especially."

Shrugging his shoulders, Dean removed his hand from the shifter and placed it back on his knee. "Sorry bro, we can't call them yet."

"But we can still stop for food, right?" _And maybe I can sneak off and make a call without his knowing..._

His head nodded, but as though he could read Sam's mind Dean was quick to add, "Food's fine, but don't get any crazy ideas about sneaking off and calling them behind my back. Because I'll know."

Sam did it anyway, waiting until Dean was caught up in Laura, flattering her mercilessly, before he casually excused himself from the table to go to the bathroom. When Dean barely looked up, Sam let out a breath he didn't know he was holding and made tracks to the bathroom, and out of Dean's line of sight.

He dialed the phone with shaky fingers, going over in his head what he would say, but everything he could think of sounded obscure, irrational, totally looney toons. Sam had always been level headed. He'd always made a point of thinking things through to the point of obsession before finally making a decision. And the fact that Dean, _his_ Dean, was only slightly less OCD than he himself was made it that much harder for Sam to develop a logical explanation for their spur of the moment trip. _Yeah, Mom and Dad, I know Dean just barely got out of the hospital, but we decided a hiking and caving expedition was just what the doctor ordered. What about the wheelchair? Oh, well I'll just push him over the rocks. Won't be a problem. _Yeah, right. Suuure they'd buy that. Even his thoughts sounded sarcastic, and he couldn't imagine what his actual voice would convey.

The phone rang twice, and Sam gulped. Three times, and he could feel his breathing getting heavy. The fourth ring, Sam's hands were shaking and as the answering machine picked up he quickly slammed his thumb against the END button on his cell phone. He'd left no message. _It's easier to ask forgiveness than permission_, he thought, reminding himself of the classic cliche that his friends had often used on him when he stonewalled against their rebellions. But this time, they were right. And he decided right there that their parents wouldn't be called until the party was on the way back home.

It wasn't surprising to Sam that Dean didn't seem to realize he'd been gone, and they finished their meal without any mention of him sneaking off. They were back in the car, almost an hour beyond the restaurant before Dean's voice cut through the Metallica he'd insisted on listening to. "Couldn't do it, could you," he said smugly, looking at Sam for a formal confirmation.

"Do what?" Sam asked innocently, although the hasty swerve of the car gave a different story.

Dean leered at the younger boy, poking him in the arm with his index finger. "You know what," he teased dryly. "The call. You think I didn't know you tried to call Mom and Dad?"

"Oh, that." If he could have, Sam would be looking at his shoes, but instead he carefully studied the deserted road in from of him, pretending to search for dangers in their path. "I'm sorry, Dean. I thought they needed to know. But... but I couldn't do it. When it came down to it, I just didn't know what to say."

Dean laughed, mocking Sam. "What, you couldn't tell dear old Mommy and Daddy the truth? _Mom, Dad, Dean's lost it. He thinks he's someone else, and we're going to fight the demon that brought him to this world in the first place. Be back at dinner time."_

"Honestly, Dean. How would you explain something like this?" Sam appealed, gripping the wheel tighter in his hands.

"I wouldn't. That's why what we do isn't talked about. In _my _world, Sam and I have a thankless job, and most of the time we can never explain what's going on. We just don't talk about it."

"I don't know how you did it, day after day," Laura cooed sadly. Fingers reached forward, clutching Dean's shoulders and massaging them comfortingly.

He reached up, joining his hands with Laura's. "By the end, I'd told you about all this," he said, patting Laura's hands to indicate that he was talking to her, "But usually people saw us more as outlaws than the Supernatural law. It's a lonely life."

"But I don't understand, then," she continued. "If it's so lonely...so thankless, then why are we on our way to Missouri trying to figure out a way to send you back? It doesn't make sense."

Dean squeezed her hands tighter as he noticed Sam nodding his head in agreement with her question. His voice came out low, pleading. "Please don't make me try to explain this to you guys. It's just a feeling I have...I need to go back."

The car was silent for several minutes, and Dean contemplated turning up the music so the verbal silence wasn't so deafening, but Sam was having none of that. He wasn't about to let Dean off so easily; it had just taken him a while to piece together what he would say. The words came out hesitant, but contrived, and he kept his tone low as though it might make the words less hurtful. "Dean, I need to get some things straight. You said you watched your Sam die in your arms. You said you held him in your arms and saw him take his last breath. If you're so certain he's dead then why are you still so desperate to go back there?"

"Dammit Sam," Dean snapped, releasing Laura's hand and slamming the balled fist into the dashboard. "I don't want to explain this. I _can't_ explain this. All I know is that I can't turn my back on the possibility of going back there."

"And what happens to us when you go back there?" Sam cried, angrily wiping at the few tears that had snuck past the barricade he'd put up. "And what happens to you? You're my brother, dammit!"

"I'm _not_ your brother. At least not the one you know! And if you'd really stop to think about that, you might realize that you actually want your own brother back!"

Sam paused, mouth agape as he realized the thought had never crossed his mind. Sure, there had been the idea in the back of his mind that if this Dean wasn't his Dean than his Dean must be out there somewhere going through the same issues. But in the present, he'd simply accepted this Dean as his Dean. "Do you think _my_ Dean is back in your world?" Sam asked, fear rising in his thoughts. "Because you left your world from that cave where the Pathuma lived. Could he–"

"I have no idea," Dean interrupted, not wanting to think about it any more than he had to. But when he saw the look on Sam's face, he couldn't leave it at that. "Don't worry, though. I killed it. If he's there, you don't need to worry about him facing it."

"Yeah, but he's still there, in a strange world. And if your brother really is dead, then he's all alone."

"You think I don't know that?" Dean snapped, ignoring completely that fact that Laura sat behind him, desperately trying to calm his nerves. "That's part of the reason I have to go back. If I'm here, he never can be!"

"What about the time difference?" Sam continued, unable to just let Dean off the hook. He wanted answers and he wanted them now. "You said it was March where you came from, but it's November here. That's eight months. Even in the coma that wouldn't explain the difference."

Dean sighed, realizing this conversation couldn't be avoided, and deciding it better just to let it happen. "Time zones are new to me," Dean answered slowly. "But time moves differently in different dimensions. From what I understand, there can be a lapse of just a few minutes, days, months, or even years. Sometimes, you can go into a different dimension and come back into your own just a few hours later, but actually have aged by years. Who knows what month it will be when I get back."

Chewing on his lower lip, Sam contemplated Dean's explanation. Oddly, it made sense. His mind went to the episodes of Buffy that Jess had made him watch, recalling something about dimensional time changes in several of those. He'd rolled his eyes at the thought; in truth, he'd rolled his eyes at the entire premise of the series, but now he was willing to give it more credence. But more questions streamed his mind, and as he excepted one explanation another begged to be offered. "What about those scars? Mom was right, you know. They weren't on you even a couple days before you woke up. So how come there on you...but you're in my brother's body? I mean, if the scars could transfer, why didn't the rest of it. Why are you paralyzed?"

The question caught even Dean off guard, and he hesitated before shrugging his shoulders and picking up the stacks of papers they had collected. His eyes scanned quickly, looking for an explanation, and finally settling on the closest thing. "I definitely think I got your brother's body when I transferred dimensions, but for some reason I don't think the scars are considered bodily. I think they're considered emotional. Those scars...they're a part of me. They're who I am."

"So you're saying they followed you into this dimension because they're scars on your memory...you're aura?" Laura piped in, trying to understand what Dean was saying and coming closer than Sam was.

"I guess so," Dean replied. "It's the only explanation I can come up with."

"So does that mean that _my _Dean wouldn't have them in your world?"

"Probably not, but then again, I don't really know because I still got his paralysis."

Sam considered that for a moment, and then prodded more, "So you think he's OK in your world then? You think he can walk?"

"I don't know, Sam. I guess so." Aggravation became obvious in Dean's tone as he thought of the one thing he despised from this world. Maybe...maybe if he could walk, he wouldn't be so desperate to get out. But when it came to living without his legs, the nagging in his brain got louder. He had to get back. He had to walk again.

Sam seemed to shrink away, realizing that Dean was getting tired of answering his questions, but obviously still curious. Assuring himself that Dean wouldn't do anything while he had control of the car, Sam tried for one more question. Dean continued to talk about a feeling. He kept referring to a pull that was calling him. And he'd had that dream this morning, a morning that seemed all too long ago, but was really less than half a day from the present. He sounded more calm and confident than he felt, but he tried to make his face match that of his voice. "Dean, Why do you keep talking about your feeling? If Sam's dead, why do you seem so desperate to return _to_ something?"

Dean stammered, the words sounding hollow as he spoke them because the answer he'd come up with seemed so unreal, and yet so possible. He looked straight on at Sam, his eyes boring into the boy's head with fierce finality. "Because I _don't_ think Sam is still dead."


	12. Chapter 12

**I don't own either Sam or Dean, but the story below is all mine. Hope you enjoy.**

_Hi guys! Once again, thanks for all your wonderful reviews_. _I get the impression from your responses that I cleared up everything, at least to that point, but be sure to let me know if there's anything else that doesn't make sense. Here's the next installment. Hope you enjoy, and as usual, keep reviewing._

Signs for Devil's Elbow began appearing a little more than seven hours after they had begun the drive. Feelings of apprehension began to flood Dean's mind as he experienced memories of the last time he had seen those signs; memories of the last time he had been in the town. Recalling that the reception had been far from inviting the last time, Dean closed his hand tightly around Sam's arm. "We should probably pull off somewhere for a while. Go find a restaurant or something."

Shooting Dean a curious look, Sam steered the Impala into the parking lot of the next diner they came to, but he didn't ask any questions. Dean would tell him when he was ready. Instead, he pulled his phone from his pocket, staring at the list of missed calls and deleting each one. He'd turned the phone on silent to avoid his parents calls, and feelings of guilt welled up inside as he realized they must be going out of their minds with worry. Looking at the time display he just about blanched, realizing that, including the trip to the library, they'd been gone for almost ten hours. They'd missed lunch, therapy, and now dinner.

As Sam was worrying about what to do about their parents, Laura had been helping Dean from the car. She'd unloaded the wheelchair from the trunk, unfolded it, and nervously watched as Dean transferred himself into the chair, unwilling to accept her help. They now waited for Sam to join them, and Dean was truly pissed off.

"Damn place doesn't even have the decency to make their entrance wheelchair accessible," Dean snapped, slamming the footrests into something at his feet. As Sam approached, he could see the two steep concrete steps that led to the door of the establishment.

"You want to move on? Go somewhere else?" the offer was genuine, but Dean took it as patronization.

"No, Sam, I don't want to go somewhere else," Dean mocked bitterly. _I want to walk into this place on my own power. I want my legs back. I _want_ my body back!_ He stared at the steps, willing them to disappear, but when they didn't he spun himself around, back to the steps, and looked pointedly at Sam. "So are you gonna help me get in there or are you just gonna stand around feeling sorry for me?" It killed him to say that, killed him to pretend it didn't matter that he couldn't get into the building by himself. His mask was all he had, and he held onto it with every fiber left in his being.

Every head in the place looked up and stared as Sam struggled with Dean's chair, jerking it up the two steps and into the diner. And once Dean was safely on level ground, they gaped at him as he angrily pushed past them to a booth at the back of the small building. No one even tried to hide their curiosity, because they weren't used to hiding it. It was a small town, and Dean was different. They didn't like different. Different meant gossip. So, as Sam and Laura joined him at the table the patrons began to talk, pointing and staring as if he were some kind of space alien instead of a human being.

The waitress approached them nervously, hands clutching at her order tablet. "You kids new in town?" she asked, eyes shifting nervously between Sam and Laura, but blatantly ignoring Dean.

"Just passing through," Laura chimed in, her perkiness indicating a seemingly oblivious knowledge of the tension in the air. "You guys should really think about getting a ramp instead of those steps."

"Never needed one before," the waitress replied, barely blinking at her matter of fact response. "Now what can I get you?"

She looked from Laura to Sam, writing down their orders and then nudged her head in Dean's direction, still looking at Sam. "And what'll he have?"

"_He_ talks," Dean snapped, his face flushing as he sunk down in his chair, wishing he could disappear all-together. "_He_ can order for himself. And _he _will have a cheeseburger and fries."

The waitress nodded, averting her eyes away from him, but adding his order to the tablet. It angered Dean even more to notice that she didn't even react to him calling her out on her blatant disregard to his very existence. She still seemed nervous, but not because of what Dean had said, or even how he'd said it. Her actions told him she was scared of _him; _as though his paralysis might be catching. She'd skirted around him, careful never to touch him or get too close, careful to never even look at him. It made Dean feel like a leper.

"Well people around here sure are friendly," he quipped, plastering a take no prisoners expression on his face in an attempt to cover his true emotions. "Just like the last time I was in this town. And we haven't even made it into creepyville, yet."

As Sam and Laura looked at him with curiosity, he began to explain, recounting his first visit to the town. The surrounding towns, like the one he and his Sam had taken cover at, had been normal, Smallville USA type towns; just not used to strangers. But Devil's Elbow itself had been like taking a jump into a time warp, landing themselves in the middle of the 1800's. Dean told them how they'd pulled into the town and found it completely deserted. He told them about being watched from behind curtains, and then having shotguns aimed at them and fired as he and Sam had hightailed it from the town. And then he told him how they'd snuck back into Devil's Elbow under the cover of darkness, hiding in the trees as they climbed the mountain to the old mine shaft where the Pathuma laid in wait.

At that point Dean stopped his story. They already knew the rest, and the turning gears in Sam's head were becoming too noticeable to ignore. "What are you thinking about?"

Sam hesitated, forming words in his head before speaking them out loud, sounding almost apologetic. "I don't want to be the one to say this, Dean," he began hesitantly. "But don't you think it's about time we address the giant white elephant that's been with us on this entire trip?"

Dean's face fell and his shoulders slumped more than they already had been. He knew what Sam was implying; the thought hadn't strayed far from his mind from the minute he'd been told in the hospital, and the feelings had just gotten stronger and stronger the closer they got to the cave. He couldn't walk. And as such, he wouldn't be able to make the stone filled trek up the side of the mountain to the mouth of the cave. It had been hard enough on Sammy, stumbling with his still barely mobile lower half, but he could at least remain upright. Dean was totally dependent on the wheelchair. And even if he _did_ manage to get his limp ass to that mine shaft there would be no way he could fight, and he was the only one with any hunting experience.

"So what's your point, Sam?" he asked, channeling confidence, and hoping ignoring the problem longer would eventually lead to a solution.

"Dean, please..." Laura said gently, trying to be the voice of reason. "I can understand your desire to be the person you once were, but there's no way you're getting yourself up that mountain."

Looking into Laura's eyes, he spoke firmly. "This is more than just being able to walk again, and you know it. This is about going back entirely. I _have _to get back to my world. I have to get back to my Sam."

Tears brimmed in Laura's eyes, knowing where this conversation was going. Dean looked away, memories flooding his mind as he remembered a similar conversation with the Laura from his world. This was all too weird. So many of these conversations he'd had before, but for the Sam and Laura sitting in front of him, these were first's. He held up a hand, putting a stop to the flow of tears before they could get out of control. "Let's not do this right now, Laura," he pleaded. "We've got more important things to deal with right now."

Laura nodded, wiping the tears out of her eyes as their food was delivered, but she didn't touch it.

"So, hotshot, what do you suggest?" Sam demanded, taking a bite of his chicken sandwich. "How do we get you up that mountain?"

Dean shrugged through his own mouthful of burger, trying to look totally gung-ho about his response, but cringing inside. "I guess you'll just have to carry me."

xxxxxx

As they left the restaurant, Dean noticed the locals pulling back into their booths and away from possible contamination. That was the last straw, and while Dean gritted his teeth as Sam lowered the chair, he resigned himself to do everything within his power to leave this world and the damn wheelchair behind.

It had gotten dark while they ate, providing the shelter they required to make the trek to the mine shaft. Dean guided Sam to the same place they'd used to hide the car the last time he was here and studied the entrance to the trail. The first hundred or so yards was relatively wide and smooth, and he determined to make it as far as he could in the wheelchair before demoralizing himself by letting Sam carry him. After arming themselves with the meager weapon supply they'd managed to purchase from a pawn shop along the way, Dean pushed off to the very audible protests of Laura and Sam. But they grudgingly followed him, all three of them ignoring the feelings of unrest settling in their flip-flopping stomachs.

Dean's arms burned, pleading with him to give in and accept help, but he was still able to propel the chair forward even over the rocky, craggy ground. And until he could no longer move it, he wouldn't admit he needed help. That moment came about a quarter of the way up the trail when he hit a bed of rocks too large to allow him passage. Dean halted, panting hard through his efforts, his chest tightening as he accepted defeat. He silently cursed his immobile legs as he looked up at Sam, announcing meekly, "you're gonna have to carry me from here."

His face gave nothing away as Sam crouched down and collected the older man in his arms, throwing him over his shoulder in an army carry. Laura folded the wheelchair with the same emotionless expression that Sam held, and the three of them continued on their way, following Dean's instructions.

The entrance to the mine shaft appeared through the dark night, a gaping hole sticking out of the otherwise untouched mountainside. Motions were reversed as Laura unfolded the chair and Sam lowered Dean gently back into it. Dean's fist tightened around the barrel of the gun, fervently hoping the silver bullets he'd loaded into it would suffice, because he hadn't been able to locate the ingredients for the poison he'd filled bullets with before. Not that he would have remembered how to mix the poison anyway. The recipe had been found in his father's journal, but he didn't have that anymore.

"You guys have your weapons?" he whispered, through clenched teeth.

Sam glanced nervously at his brother, drawing the knife from his waistband and clutching his own gun in the other hand. "Do you really think this is such a good idea?" he asked anxiously. "I mean, how do you know this will even work?"

Laura reached out, fingers clenching tightly into Dean's shoulder. Without even looking at her, he could tell she was nodding in agreement with Sam. "Just trust me, guys," Dean assured them, perhaps dredging up the first true speck of confidence he'd experienced since they'd begun this excursion. "I've already faced this thing once, so I know what we're up against. It should be so simple - we just have to mix his blood with mine, and then I make a wish and its over. I'm back home. You get your Dean back. And we move on with life the way we always knew it."

There was no denying the sadness that enveloped the group as they huddled outside the cave. If the plan worked, it would be the last time they saw each other...at least the last time they saw that version of each other.

For Dean, there was pure elation. He had nothing against these versions of Sam and Laura; they'd actually been more help to him than he could have ever asked for. But there was no denying the feeling he had that _his _Sam was still alive, and he wanted to get back to him with every thing he had. He knew his place...and this wasn't it.

For Sam, there were mixed emotions. He would give his own life to get his own Dean back into this world and away from the terrifying situations he presumed he'd been subjected to wherever he was now. But Sam's heart still ached at the idea of having to tell his brother, _again, _that he'd been paralyzed in an accident. Because, whatever the boy was dealing with in the other realm, Sam was certain he was doing it with the use of his legs, and it would all come crashing down on him the minute he returned to this world.

For Laura, there was aguish. Because this was the only Dean who loved her. The other Dean, whoever he was, wouldn't know her at all, and the love she had found in these few short days would all be ripped away from her in the blink of an eye. She hadn't expected it, and God she certainly hadn't planned on falling in love with the guy in such a short amount of time. But she had. He knew her in ways most guys had taken years to learn, and he trusted her with secrets that would send the rest of the world into a tailspin. And she didn't want to lose him.

The trio stared at each other, saying with their eyes what they couldn't say with words. For almost a minute they shared the pain of emotions consuming their souls. Dean was the one to break the hold, because he was the least tied to this world. "Guys, lets go." He pushed off again, noticing the same blood stained indentations in the grass that he'd seen the last time. They'd been created by victims bodies, laying there for hours, and sometimes days, before being found by the townfolk.

Shoving hard against the wheels, Dean prayed he would have enough strength to take the creature down on the first try. He wasn't sure he could protect his companions if the situation demanded it, and that scared him more than the Pathuma itself did. They entered, Laura shining the beam of her flashlight against the walls of the cave, swishing it back and forth to ensure she covered every inch of the mineshaft. Dean looked to the back of the space and to the right, remembering that that was where the thing had come from before, and like before the silence was quickly broken by the low growl of the beast they'd come to hunt.

Eyes glowed viciously at the three intruders, dancing from body to body as it decided which one to go after first. Dean cocked his gun as he noted the trembling forms of Sam and Laura on either side of him. "Just stay quiet," he hissed, moving forward and planting himself protectively in front of the two. He took aim, instinct telling him where the chest cavity should be and firing directly at it. The creature went down all too easily, filling the cave with one last agonizing shriek before going silent.

Dean shoved forward, approaching the creature with no hesitation, and leering over it. "I'm going home," he sneered, grinning victoriously at the demon he'd bested so quickly. Sam had followed behind him, and Dean now held out his hand, demanding the knife the boy held. Gripping it in his right hand, Dean pressed the tip into the opposite arm, drawing a two inch line along his arm, procuring a decent supply of blood. He lowered himself from the chair to the ground, knowing it would be easier to reach the creature's own blood from that angle. He shoved against the still form of the beast, angling it just right and then joined his arm with the Pathuma's chest, mixing their blood. He made his wish, issuing his desires both mentally and verbally and waited for the reaction to occur.


	13. Chapter 13

**Don't own the boys. Don't own the show. Only own the story. Enjoy. **

_Hi guys! Once again, thanks so much for all the awesome reviews. I hope you are fully satisfied. I'm loving writing this story. Keep reviewing. Here's the next installment. _

Dean didn't know how long he'd kept his eyes shut, waiting to feel something, waiting for a reaction that didn't come. And then Sam's hand was on his shoulder, gently pulling him from the still bleeding creature.

"Dean–" Sam prompted, sympathy resonating from his voice.

He looked up hopefully, but his face soon fell as Dean realized that nothing had changed. "I guess it didn't work, did it," he asked, dejection overtaking the confidence that had controlled his very being just minutes before.

Sam shook his head. "I guess not," he replied, apologetically. "Come on, lets head back. We can look over the notes and try something else."

"There is nothing else," Dean answered, allowing himself to be lifted back into the wheelchair without any struggle. "This was it. This was all I had." He stared at the blood mixing together in the wound on his arm, still praying that it would magically spring to action if he just continued to wait. But still nothing happened, and aside from feeling a little woozy from the blood loss, Dean didn't feel any different.

Soon, Laura was by his side, ripping a piece from his shirt and wrapping it tightly around Dean's bleeding arm. He made no indication of recognizing her presence, or Sam's for that matter. His mind was still consumed by the pages and pages of information he had found on the Pathuma. He'd spent the entire ride reading over the pages, memorizing the passages, the myths, the facts. He knew the information backwards and forwards, but he still couldn't shake the doubts. There was something he'd missed; something that was the key to the whole transformation. He just had to figure out what.

Relief, that's what Laura felt, but she was the only one. As she'd watched Dean combine his blood with the demon, she prayed that it wouldn't work. And now, she wanted nothing more than to throw herself at the man, embrace him in a hug and tell him she was glad he was still here. But he didn't even seem to care that she existed anymore. His glazed eyes, focusing only on what was written on the walls of his mind, made it clear that the only thing he cared about was finding a way to get back. He wanted to get away. From this dimension, from the wheelchair, from her. She fought back the tears as she'd seen Dean do countless times in the last week. He didn't know that she knew. He had no idea that she could already read him so well that she knew when he was putting on a front, desperately fighting a barrage of tears that he would never allow anyone to see. And now she reciprocated, selflessly fighting off emotions that threatened to provide Dean guilt. Because she loved him enough to let him go. She loved him enough to _help_ him go.

Sam pushed the wheelchair out of the mineshaft, still shocked that Dean was allowing it so willingly. But as they came into the moonlight, Dean finally seemed to reawaken his senses and an arm reached out to the side, palm flat, as he indicated for Sam to stop. "We can't leave yet," he ordered firmly. "Just give me a minute to think."

Words filled his mind in endless streams, jumbled, out of order. They didn't make sense, but he still played them over and over, waiting for something to strike a chord. And then finally it did. Something he'd said, reading from one of the many pages at the library. He'd read the passage and then summarized it. _The emotion has to come from the heart. _But that wasn't what the sentence had really said. He pulled the words into his mind, rearranging the passage until he had a carbon copy staring him directly in the eyes. _The pathuma is said to have transference powers when a wish is made from the victims heart. _

It still didn't make sense, but Dean continued to question it, mouthing the words silently over and over. _Wish is made from the victims heart. The victim's heart. _And then it finally hit him, and he spoke his realization out loud as though Sam and Laura had actually been a part of his entire thought process and would understand where he was coming from. "It wasn't a wish with heartfelt emotion," he exclaimed, "It was a wish made when the Pathuma _pierced_ the heart. The victims...everyone of them was killed from three stab wounds to the heart. By making a wish as they were stabbed, the victims could alter their own outcomes. _I_ didn't put myself here...Sam put me here."

"So what does that mean?" Sam asked, wide eyed, wondering how this could shock him even after the craziness that had controlled his life for over a week. "You're saying that a wish _your_ Sam made as he was dying put _you_ here? I don't get it. Why wouldn't _he _have been the one to transfer worlds?"

Dean alternated between pride and anger as the realization struck him, and he glanced between Laura and Sam, offering his solution. "He put me first," Dean answered, as though it were the most obvious answer. _Dammit, Sammy, why the hell did you have to put me first. You should have taken care of yourself. And what the hell did you wish specifically that put me in this godforsaken world?_

Wishes were tricky, and Dean knew all too well how screwing up a wish could so easily change the outcome. Hell, apparently he was living proof. Sam couldn't have wished this for him, could he have? _All_ of it? The family, he got. Laura, he got. His friends, he got. He even got the education and the damn sports obsession. But could Sam honestly have lain on that ground, dying from a wound to the chest, and wished for Dean to wake up paralyzed, just as he had been? There was no way, and because Dean had that much faith in his brother, he knew his wish back into his dimension had to be dead on. But how?

Although he'd answered Sam's question in his head, Dean never verbalized it, and he brushed it aside without another thought as he gripped the wheels and shoved himself back towards the shaft. "I know what I have to do," he said determinedly.

The force with which Sam stopped the chair rocked Dean forward, and he had to brace his arms painfully against the armrests to keep from falling out. "Sam, what the hell?" he cried, twisting around to stare him angrily in the eye.

"I think you're missing a few key points, bro," Sam spat back, still refusing to let go of the chair. "The most obvious one being that you already killed the thing. And even if it was still alive, to make your wish you HAVE TO BE STABBED IN THE HEART!" Sam's voice rose rapidly, hoping his voice of reason would be enough to make Dean back down. He was wrong.

Dean smiled evilly back at him, flashes of fearless abandon in his eyes. "I'll figure something out. If I have to stab myself with its claws, I'll make this thing happen."

Sam opened his mouth to protest, utterly appalled by Dean's resolution, but he found no words would come out. The scheme was just too completely idiotic to grace with any kind of response, and as he stood there, stunned, Dean took the opportunity to pull from Sam's grasp. He tore back into the cave before Sam could recover and grab him again, but what he saw when he reentered is what actually made him stop dead in his tracks.

"Oh my God, where'd it go?" Laura hissed, almost running into the back of Dean's chair in her panic as she and Sam joined him.

"I wish I knew," Dean whispered back, eyes widened.. The three of them stared fearfully at the spot where the Pathuma had lain, dead, minutes before. But now, it was gone, and with it, the blood that had spilled from its own and Dean's bodies. The floor was clean, as though no struggle had ever taken place.

"I think we should get out of here," came Sam's quavering voice, as he backed up cautiously.

But Dean refused to leave. He checked the gun in his lap, assuring himself there were still bullets in it, and then moved forward instead of back. "It must still be alive somewhere," he voiced unnecessarily, not caring if Sam and Laura joined him or not. Now that he knew his only way to go back was to die, he greeted the idea of meeting the creature willingly, almost hopefully.

What Dean hadn't banked on was that the Pathuma wouldn't attack him first. As he moved further into the tunnels, he assumed the creature was somewhere within, laying in wait for him. Laura's pained screams and the frantic sound of bullets ricocheting off of stone walls were the first indication that anything was wrong. He spun around, waging a war against his own arms as he fought to make it back to where Sam and Laura were, still in the mouth of the mine shaft.

Seeing the Pathuma on top of Laura, its teeth tearing at her arm, Dean flung himself from the wheelchair and landed on top of the creature, pulling it from her. They wrestled on the ground for several seconds, the demon on top and Dean on the bottom, his motionless legs unable to give him the leverage to flip. Dean punched at the thing, suddenly unwilling to just give in and let it kill him for fear of what it would do to Sam and Laura once he was dead. He didn't know if his wish would protect them when he returned to the other dimension, and he couldn't just leave them to fight the Pathuma on their own.

The beast fought savagely, teeth and claws flying left and right, and Dean had to use all his strength to maintain a safe distance between its teeth and his shoulder. And then Dean heard Sam cry out, and he looked up just long enough to see the boy's eyes focusing on the source of his anguish. It wasn't for Laura's torn shoulder, and it wasn't for himself, it was for Dean. Straining arms still fending off the creature, Dean looked to where Sam's eyes lay and cringed at the sight. The claws on the Pathuma's left hind paw, all six inches of them, had sliced into Dean's leg. They remained tightly embedded, lifting and lowering Dean's leg into the air each time the foot made the same motions. But Dean hadn't cringed because of the pain, he had cringed because there was none. His leg was literally torn to shreds, being flapped around like a marionette, and he couldn't feel a thing.

He didn't dwell on the thought, realizing he needed to turn his attention back to fighting the beast, and he pulled an arm back, landing a momentous smack against the creature's jowls. It pulled back a bit, howling in anger, and Dean took the opportunity to reach for his gun which had landed just a few feet away. He groped for it, his outstretched fingers just barely touching the barrel, and he tried to pull himself closer.

As if sensing his intentions, the Pathuma removed itself painlessly from his mangled leg and leapt for the weapon, batting it out of the way with its paw and then turning back to its prey, but pouncing this time on Sam, deciding it had done enough with Dean for the time being. Dean had to give the boy credit; for having never faced a supernatural creature before, Sam certainly seemed to have the instinct ingrained in him. He fought the thing off with every ounce of strength he had, mimicking Dean's efforts of pushing at the mouth and front claws to keep them from embedding themselves into his body.

Dean was finally able to flip himself over, and began the strenuous process of pulling himself towards the struggle with his forearms, stopping first to grab the gun. He left a trail of blood behind him as he went, mindful of the pain that should have been wracking his body, and actually grateful for the lack of feeling. Sam kept up the struggle triumphantly, but relief flooded his terrified features as Dean appeared, once again punching at the snarling beast with his right hand while leveraging himself with the left.

Forgetting about Sam, the Pathuma turned once again on Dean, and Dean spent just enough energy on throwing the gun in Sam's direction before returning wholeheartedly to the fight at hand. He screamed orders at Sam that brought tears to the boys eyes and sent Laura to the wall, huddled, devastated. But Sam listened intently, doing exactly as Dean had told him. He aimed the gun, waiting until the right moment, and as the Pathuma's claws dug themselves deep into Dean's heart Sam fired. He emptied the gun, ensuring that every single bullet lodged itself inside the creature's chest cavity. And then he dropped the gun, grabbed Laura, and ran. And the world went dark.

_Yeah, so you guys didn't ACTUALLY_ _think it would be as easy as it was in the last chapter, did you? Haha, yeah, right. Suuuuure. Anyway, hope you enjoyed. We're winding down. I think the next chapter will be the last. So thanks so much for reading!_


	14. Chapter 14

**I don't own have anything to do with Supernatural, but the story itself is mine. **

_Hi! Once again, thanks so much for all your reviews. I'm stoked that you all love this so much. I've had a blast writing it. Enjoy!_

Dean slowly opened his eyes, vaguely aware of the low growling echoing around him and the sound of panting. It took several seconds to realize the panting sound was coming from his own ragged breathing, a direct result to the pain in his chest. Several more seconds passed before Dean opened his eyes, using his other senses to absorb his surroundings as he tried to reorient himself. He had a nagging feeling in the back of his mind that something wasn't quite right, or maybe that it finally was. And then, in a flash, everything came rushing back at him in a flood of memories and emotions.

"Sam!" Dean hollered, fear and apprehension at what he might not hear overtaking him.

"I'm over here," Sam called back in a panic. "Dean, hurry!"

_Sam's alive! _That was all it took for Dean to spring to action, although he still wasn't entirely sure where he was; which dimension he was in. Finally opening his eyes, Dean stretched his arms forward, readying himself to crawl to Sam's aid. The pain in his leg brought him to another halt, and Dean looked back, seeing the blood pouring from the open wound in his right leg.

A slight smile crossed his lips despite the stabbing pains he was now experiencing, because he knew what the pain meant. He was back home...his home. And the Sam now slowly backing into the wall with the Pathuma hot in pursuit was _his_ Sam. But this was far from a happy reunion, because his wish home had brought him right back into the middle of the original fight. And if things didn't go differently this time, the whole nightmare might happen all over again.

For the life of him, Dean didn't know why he'd chosen this moment to return to. He'd realized, when making the wish, that the only way to guarantee his return home would be to request a specific time and place that he'd already experienced. But why this one time and this one place of all choices, he had no idea. Maybe it was because it was the last link to the other world that he'd had. Maybe because it was the first place that come to mind as he lay dying, the six inch claws of the Pathuma impaled painfully into his heart. But it was probably because Dean felt he had unfinished business to attend to...and Dean wasn't one to let things go.

He remembered this moment; remembered the sequence of events that had taken place before, and knew the same would happen again if he didn't act quickly. Sam was less than two feet from the wall now, any second his back would hit solid rock and the beast would spring.

Dean struggled to his feet, both reveling at and cursing the movement and feeling that had returned to his legs the minute he returned to this world. Sam still held his knife tightly between closed fingers. It wouldn't fall to the ground until the creature attacked, and Dean knew it would be of no use anyway. His eyes scanned the room, knowing the backpack should be nearby, and knowing the necessary weapon was inside. Seeing the pack in the middle of the floor, where Dean remembered it should be, he lunged for it, ignoring the screaming pains encompassing his body and pretending the black spots dancing in front of his eyes were just figments of his imagination.

Both knees buckled as Dean reached the pack, taking him down quickly. The impact jarred him enough that he had to take another few seconds to recover, just enough time for the Pathuma to finally pounce on Sam. Like before, Sam landed on the floor and the creature sank its teeth into Sam's shoulder, eliciting the same agonized scream. But this time, Dean was ready. He drew out the gun from the pack and steadied his aim, praying that his foggy vision wouldn't impede his shots.

The first shot missed, pinging off the wall and sending fragments of rock flying in all directions. But the next shot was dead on, and the creature went down, falling half on top of Sam. Dean could see the thing was still breathing, but he didn't want to risk hitting his brother. Once again climbing painfully to his feet, Dean staggered towards the two, where Sam was already struggling to climb out from under the beast. Dean reached down, offering his hand and using his remaining strength to pull Sam the rest of the way. They both leaned heavily against the wall, it being the only thing holding either of them up.

Dean aimed the weapon at the Pathuma again, and pulled the trigger, emptying every bullet into creature's body, ensuring once and for all that the thing was finally dead. And then he collapsed, pulling Sam with him.

Tears came to Dean's eyes, his first reaction to turn away from his brother so Sam couldn't see his weakness. But for once, Dean realized he didn't care. Everything emotion he'd felt throughout the entire ordeal, starting with watching Sam getting hurt, and then seeing him die, waking up in a strange world and not knowing how or why he was there, it all welled into one giant ball of emotion and erupted from deep within, pouring out of him like molten lava from a volcano. Dean desperately pulled Sam toward him, squeezing him against his chest, refusing to let him go.

"Oh God, I thought I was never going to see you again," Dean sobbed into Sam's hair, not even caring that he was allowing forbidden tears to soak into his brother's long mane. "I thought you were dead."

"Dean, it's OK. I'm fine. I'm here," Sam soothed, confusion in his face and voice. But he accepted the embrace, welcomed it.

They stayed that way for several minutes, two brothers reconnecting with each other after a long absence. But while Sam was open to Dean's allowance of their once in a lifetime chick flick moment, he had no clue as to what prompted it. He'd never seen his brother so worked up over what was seemingly a routine hunting case. As far as injuries went, Sam's were relatively minor. The beast was dead; their job complete; and there was nothing more to worry about. So why was Dean acting as though his life had just flashed before his eyes?

If blood loss hadn't weakened Dean to the point of collapse, he probably never would have released his hold on Sam. But he had two gaping wounds, and the blood had been flowing for several minutes without cease, and a woozy feeling finally overcame Dean. He fell back against the wall, fingers sliding lethargically against Sam's back. Now wasn't the time to be asking about Dean's sudden change in character.

"Dean, you're hurt," Sam exclaimed, pressing his hand firmly against Dean's stomach wound.

"Just a scratch," Dean assured his brother, although the weakness in his voice told a different story. "And you're not exactly unscathed either, little brother."

Sam's eye's traveled to the wound on his shoulder where Dean was currently looking, and shrugged. "If there's one thing I learned from having a spinal cord injury, its to welcome pain. Pain is good."

Dean smiled back, finally understanding what it was that Sam had been going through with his recovery. "You have no idea, Sam," Dean agreed, looking down at his own legs as he welcomed the pain from the wound. "But somehow, we have to get down off this mountain. Can you make it to the backpack? Get the first aid kit?"

Sam nodded, slowly climbing to his still weak feet and teetering across the floor of the mineshaft to where the pack lay. On the way back he retrieved the rest of their fallen gear, collecting the knife and his cane so he wouldn't need to backtrack again for them. Lowering himself back against the wall, Sam eyed Dean with concern. Looking into Dean's eyes, Sam could see his brother's soul. Something had changed. And he couldn't tell if it was for the better or the worse. But Dean was different. He seemed older. Wiser.

"Just do the minimum for now," Dean ordered, noticing Sam was about to prepare the suture kit. "We'll wrap it tight and sew it up later, when we're at a motel."

Pausing, Sam looked up, mouth open and ready to protest. But Dean put a stop to it with one hand held firmly in the air, palm open. "I just want to get out of here," Dean begged, pulling himself back to his feet, most of his weight still leaned against the wall of the mine shaft. He chuckled, a small smile forming on his face as he faced his brother. "Boy, Sam, aren't we a pair. We can both barely walk. This is gonna be fun."

Smiling back, Sam slowly crouched to eye level with Dean's leg wound. With ease of experience, he tightly wrapped the bandage around his brother's leg, at the very least stopping the flow of blood. After doing the same with Dean's abdomen, Dean reciprocated with a tight bandage to Sam's shoulder.

"Think we can make it back down?" Sam asked, failing to hide his apprehension. Their conditions hadn't escaped him any more than they had Dean, but unlike his brother, Sam didn't find it amusing. Rationalizing the situation, Sam had already calculated the chances that both of them could make it safely down the mountain, and it wasn't good. It was all Sam could do to make it up the path, and that was with Dean's help through a lot of it. But Dean was in no condition to walk down without assistance, much less assist Sam. Contrary to Dean's gung ho attitude, the reality of the situation was that they were in a lot of trouble.

Taking a deep breath, Sam slung the re-packed backpack over his shoulder and reached for his cane, gripping it tightly in his left hand while offering the opposite shoulder to Dean. Recalcitrance clouded Dean's mind and he shrugged off Sam's offer for assistance, and pretending not to notice the fact that he swayed unsteadily the minute he pushed off from the wall. But he only made it a few feet before stubbornness gave way to rationality and he laid his arm over Sam's shoulders. "Let's get out of here, little brother," he said, trying to smile, offering a facade to the pain he was in.

Sam nodded, fierce determination on his face, because he was now holding the responsibility to get them out of this god-forsaken place when he could barely get himself in hours before.

It took three times as long to get down the mountain as it had taken to get up. Insisting on stop after stop to recharge their beyond sapped strength, Sam persisted on getting them down the mountain. By the time they made it to the car Sam's already weak legs felt like old rubberbands, and he stumbled over his feet several times just in distance it took to get to the driver's side after leaving Dean in the passenger seat. But as weak as he was, Dean was worse. The bandages, though tight, had not completely stopped the bleeding and Dean was now practically comatose from blood loss. The last hundred or so feet had been all Sam, the only indication that Dean was even still alive being his shallow breaths of warm air hitting Sam's neck.

Sam climbed into the car, wasting precious seconds as he had to wait through the trembling of exhausted limbs before he was able to regain control of his feet and place them on the pedals. Once he was able, Sam floored the gas and tore down the road in search of a motel, wishing Dean would allow for a hospital instead.

The rundown sign of the Roadway Inn barely showed in the pitch black of the night, and Sam had to slam on the brakes, sending the car into a tailspin, before he could pull into the gravel parking lot. Reaching into the back seat, Sam grabbed his cane. He paused, taking barely a second to think, and then grabbed its twin. He was far too exhausted to worry about vanity right now. And at that point his choices pretty much seemed to be use two canes or collapse on the floor in front of the hotel clerk. Any idiot could reason out the right choice.

"Dean, I'll be right back," Sam announced, although he was reasonably certain Dean didn't hear him and would never even know he'd been gone. And he was off, determinedly making his way to the lobby for a room key.

Returning victoriously several minutes later, Sam fell back into the driver's seat and started the car, rounding the corner to their room. It took every remaining ounce of strength he had to pull Dean from the car and get his brother's limp body into the room and on the first bed. Yet he still had to stitch Dean up, and hope it wouldn't be too late.

Sam set to work, pushing his exhausted body to the limit as he prepared a needle and began the tedious task of sewing up the many gashes covering Dean's body. It took almost an hour to clean, stitch, and bandage the wounds, and then Sam set to work on his own wounds, stitching them awkwardly.

He had barely finished his own surgical work before collapsing on the bed beside Dean, utterly exhausted. One would have thought that would be enough to keep him unaware when Dean started mumbling in his unconsciousness. But Sam's eyes shot wide open as Dean began to mutter the coherent, but oddly illogical words. It wasn't so much that Dean was speaking, so much as what he was saying that brought Sam from his slumber, and as he propped himself up on his elbows he eyed Dean nervously. _It's just dreams,_ Sam thought to himself, desperately trying to give his mind comfort. But as Dean continued to mumble, Sam anxiously found himself wondering it what Dean was saying was possible. _He sounds so convinced._

_Hey guys, so I decided to take this at least another chapter. I want to end it right, and I just don't feel I'm there yet. But I also didn't want to keep you waiting too long. So, I hope you enjoy this, and I'll do my best to post again real soon. _


	15. Chapter 15

**Don't own supernatural, Don't own the Winchester boys, everything else is mine - blah, blah, blah.**

_Thank you all so much for all the wonderful reviews and encouragement you guys offer! You're awesome. Here's hoping you enjoy the next installment. _

Exactly _what_ Dean was saying was enough to pique Sam's curiosity, get him sitting higher and lean in closer to his brother's face in an effort to hear the words more clearly. So the _how _in Dean's tone was more than Sam could handle. Because, as Dean muttered the incomprehensible's that made absolutely no sense to poor, confused Sam, he was smiling.

The smile was warm, light; the kind of smile that fell only on the faces of people who had experienced pure happiness. The kind of smile that Sam had never once seen cross Dean's face. And if what Dean was saying was any indication, Sam knew why he was so happy. He'd seen their mother. But how? When?

Dean was lost in reverie, unknowingly reliving his time in the other universe to a very attentive Sam, unknowingly giving away enough of his secret to allow Sam to form questions that would demand answers when Dean finally woke up.

_Mom, this food smells incredible...of course, I'll have some more coffee cake...I have friends...the basketball game was amazing, better than I could have imagined...You and Dad did a terrific job with my car. Thanks for taking such great care of her...I have a degree? From a university? Wow..._

There was more, of course. For the better part of a day Sam listened to Dean mumble and mutter about his time in the other world, still unaware of where the memories - if that's what they were- came from. Dean spoke as though these things had just recently happened. But that just wasn't possible. He'd been with Dean for the past year; not to mention the fact that their mother was most definitely not alive. So it must be just his imagination. Did Dean truly have such a vivid imagination that he could conjure up images and memories of his mother that had never actually happened? Did he wish so much for a happy family life that he was able to imagine their father as a gentle, jovial soul? And how, when Dean had no idea even how to find ESPN on the TV, did he seem to be so excited about going to a basketball game...with friends Sam had never even known existed? They all had names; first and _last_ names.

He didn't know exactly what made him question the words; what made him believe that they were more than simple hallucinations fueled from Dean's unspoken inner turmoil. He didn't even know what fed his own perplexed mind enough of a theory to run with it. But somewhere around the sixth hour of Dean's unconscious rambling Sam got a crazy idea. Running to the car as fast as his weak legs would carry him, Sam grabbed the laptop and immediately plugged it into the phone line before he'd even powered up the machine.

The internet connection in the small town was desperately slow, and Sam quickly found himself losing patience as he waited for his search to turn up the answers he sought. Even the continued stream of words softly spouting from Dean's mouth did little to subdue Sam's anxiety until finally the screen popped up in front of his face. Sam's eyes bugged out and his mouth dropped as he read the information provided him.

Of course, he expected the names he'd plugged in to show hits. Luke Mason, Collin O'Dell, Stephen Hanson...Sam typed those, and the many other names Dean had listed throughout that hour, wondering how he had been so fortunate to have Dean yield both first and last names. In some unconscious way, Sam figured Dean had actually wanted him to wonder, but no matter what the reason, he wasn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth. They weren't unusual names, and his search had actually come up with thousands of hits, many of them leading nowhere. But one particular result had Sam staring in utter amazement. Three of the eight names Sam had entered in the search engine appeared together, oddly linked to another name he knew so well. The name of their hometown: Lawrence, Kansas.

Sam gawked, clicking on the result and reading further. Luke, Stephen, Gregory; the names had come up in a birth certificate search, promptly displaying the dates of their births and city they were born in. All three had been born in Lawrence. All three had been born within the same year as Dean. The residence listed for Luke was even less than a block from their old house.

Further research on the three provided Sam with the knowledge that they had all gone to the same grade school, middle school and high school; again, the same schools he and Dean would have attended had they remained in their town, had their mother not died. _They probably _would_ have been friends, _Sam thought to himself as he read further down the list of seemingly coincidental facts.

Every one of the eight names Sam entered had resulted in the same finding for college. University of Kansas; they were all graduates. He stared at the screen for several hours, running countless searches as he tried to find any possibility of connection between Dean and the hints he voiced in his muttering. Little by little, Sam was beginning to put two and two together, but the largest hole of them all still gaped ominously at him from the confines of his mind. _Ok, so these people really do exist. And Dean very well could have gone to school with them. But he didn't. Because we moved before that was a viable option. So how does he know them? And why does he believe he graduated college with them? What the _hell_ is going on here?_

"Dammit Dean, wake up!" Sam voiced, frustrated beyond belief. There was so much he needed to know. So many unanswered questions filling his curious mind as it worked over time to fill in the blanks without help.

But Dean continued to sleep. And he continued to mumble, at this point only planting more unanswered questions in Sam's racing mind. Sam busied himself with cleaning their wounds again, pressing just a little harder than normal against Dean's gashes in hope that the man might wake up to the pain. It didn't work. And Sam had to escape.

Determining that Dean would be fine for a few minutes, Sam grabbed the car keys and sprinted from the room, his mind set on feeding his growling stomach. Despite his need to get away from Dean and the confusion he was causing in his unconscious stupor, Sam still couldn't allow himself to stay away from Dean for too long, and he turned off at the nearest diner, quickly ordering two sandwiches, and then sped back to the motel.

Dean hadn't moved, and he was still writhing on the bed, muttering about the world Sam didn't understand. And Sam retreated back outside, cracking the door just enough to hear if Dean needed him, but not enough to hear the hushed words. Sitting on the sidewalk outside their room, he ate his sandwich in silence, but not in peace. His mind raced, attempting to formulate possibility after possibility, none of them coming close to being accurate.

A muffled yelp broke Sam from his thoughts several minutes after he finished the sandwich, and Sam jumped to his feet, rushing to Dean's side. Hovering over the bed, Sam could see that Dean's eyes were now open, and clouded in pain. And the muttering had stopped; in fact, all noise had ceased to come from his brother's mouth, including more whimpers of pain. That first yelp was all Dean would allow out of his battered body, and he now put every effort into maintaining an air of determination. He refused to admit he was in pain.

"How do you feel?" Sam asked anxiously, his strong hand pushing against Dean's chest as he attempted, far to early, to sit up.

"Like some jerk is pressing against my rib cage," Dean muttered, irritated at Sam's instantaneous mother-henning. "Dude, let me up."

Sam backed off physically, but continued to protest verbally. "Dean, you left most of your blood on the mountainside last night. You need to take things slow."

"Dammit Sam, just help me sit the fuck up."

Sighing audibly, Sam reached forward and helped Dean to sit up, knowing only that if he didn't help, Dean would just do it on his own, and probably end up with a face full of carpet. "Are you hungry?" he asked instead.

Dean shrugged, eying the white bag as though it might bite. "What's in there?" he asked, hesitantly.

"BLT," Sam replied. "Not your favorite, but it keeps. I didn't know when you'd be waking up."

Reaching out a shaky hand, Dean motioned for the bag. "Give it here. It's better than nothing."

For several minutes they sat in complete silence as Dean chewed on his sandwich and Sam debated on the best way to bring up the desired, and yet all too shaky, subject matter. It was actually Dean who inadvertently brought it up, and if he'd known where it would lead he would have been sure to steer the conversation to an entirely different direction. "What were you looking for?" Dean asked, nodding in the direction of the still open laptop now flashing the outer space screen saver.

Sam looked up, startled at the break in silence, and eyed the computer. His hand reached out quickly and slammed it shut as he stammered. "It was just something that I...uh..." Sam hesitated, mentally berating himself for immediately trying to cover up his sleuthing. _Dammit Sam, just ask. You know you want to know, and this is the best chance you'll ever get._

He sighed, running his hands nervously through his long hair as he searched Dean for the answer without ever needing to ask to question. But it wasn't there, so he forced the words from his lips before he allowed himself to chicken out. "Dean, when you were unconscious you were...you were muttering stuff about Mom, and family...having friends. And Dean, I know I shouldn't have, but I looked up some of the names, and they were real people. People you possibly could have known if life had been different for us..." Sam's words had sped up the closer he got to the end, and he stopped abruptly when he noticed the terrified expression plaster itself on his brother's face.

Dean shook his head firmly, glaring at Sam, his expression saying '_how dare you invade my private thoughts. You had no right.'_ If he could have, Sam was certain that Dean would have stormed from the room. But he could barely keep himself upright against the headboard of the lumpy motel bed, let alone drag himself from the room in a fit of rage. But Sam persisted.

"I know something's going on, Dean. I have absolutely no idea what, but you sure as hell sounded convinced of what you were saying."

"We're not talking about this, Sam," Dean practically growled, wishing his body would convey the same stoicism his words did. But he was far too weak to fight his body for control of the anger image.

Dean cringed as he noted the puppy dog gaze, perfected from years of use, fall across Sam's face, and he knew he was defeated before the boy even voiced his plea. "Please, Dean. If there's something about Mom I should know, I want you to tell me. You have to tell me."

Looking at his hands, his feet, the comforter, anywhere but at Sam, Dean collected his thoughts. "Something happened...back there in the caves..." he began hesitantly.

When Sam dropped his hands to his sides and looked at his brother with wide eyed expectation, Dean knew it would be alright. And he spilled it all. For the next hour or more Dean went into intimate detail of his time in the other universe, stopping only to take necessary breaths. Sam focused his full attention on Dean's revelations, barely blinking, never flinching as Dean recounted thoughts and occurrences that only Sam would ever be able to accept as, not only possible, but normal.

When he finished, Dean let down his guard for a few seconds longer and allowed himself to join in tight embrace with his brother. Together they mourned; Dean for what he'd had, twice, and lost twice. And Sam, for what he had never had. Family. Or at least normal family. He and Sam were more family than any two point five kids with a white picket fence could ever be, but it still hurt to know the normal life they could have had.

"There's just one thing I don't understand," Dean admitted when he and Sam had finally released their hold on one another, and he looked down at his hands nervously. "When I woke up in that world, I was paralyzed, permanently. But that world was supposedly a fabrication of your wish at the hands of the Pathuma. I know you don't remember any of this, but do you have any thoughts on what you might have wished for that would put me in that situation. Were you mad at me or something? Did you want me to experience what you did?"

The question made Sam freeze momentarily, and he looked at Dean with apprehension clearly written across his face. But he quickly wiped the expression away, causing it to fade to nothingness. "Dean, I don't know what I could have wished for that would have put you in a wheelchair." Tears formed in the younger boys eyes, and he wiped them away angrily. "I would never knowingly wish that for you. I've been there; and I would never wish it on my worst enemy. If that happened because of me, I'm so sorry. But you have to believe me that I would never put you through that if I had any control over it."

Nodding firmly, Dean reassured Sam that he believed him. "I know you wouldn't Sam," Dean admitted. "I'm sorry I asked." His eyes drooped as he spoke, and Sam didn't miss the yawn Dean tried to stifle.

"Maybe we should both try and get some sleep," Sam encouraged. "You need to rest up, and I didn't get much sleep last night either."

Dean barely had the energy to acknowledge the suggestion as his eyelids flitted shut and he fell back into a deep slumber. And Sam crawled into his own bed, pulling the covers over his shoulders. But sleep wouldn't claim him nearly as easily as it did Dean. The mystery was solved, but Sam was left with a whole new set of worries. Because he'd lied to Dean when he told him that he didn't know what he would have wished for him. There was no doubt in his mind that his wish, as he lay dying at the hands of the Pathuma, was the same one he'd wished for Dean all his life. He'd always thought it completely innocent. He'd always thought it to be a wish made in love. But that wish, despite the surrounding happiness that accompanied it, had put his brother in a wheelchair for the rest of his life. He rolled over in the bed, staring sadly at Dean for several minutes, because now he didn't know what to wish for him.

He'd always wished for his brother to have the life he should have had. He'd wished for him to have the life he would have had if their mother had lived.

_Hi guys! Ok, so I've gotten several requests for some insight into the other Dean's experiences. I haven't quite decided how I want to address that, seeing as how he shouldn't remember anything that happened, but I will come up with something and post it in an epilogue as soon as I decide on the best way. Otherwise, I'm glad you enjoyed the story, and keep on the lookout for new stuff. I've already got something brewing. Thanks so much for all the support - you guys make it all worthwhile. _


	16. epilogue

**Still don't own anything related to Supernatural no matter how much my dreams tell me differently. So for now, all I have is my imagination and my stories. **

_Alright guys, here it is. Took a while to decide on the best outcome, but once I figured it out it took no time at all to pound it out. Just hope you all enjoy. Thanks so much for sticking with the story. I love you all!_

The open road stretched endlessly before them, hypnotizing white lines flashing steadily through Sam's field of vision as he drove the lonely span of mid-western highway in search of a new destination. The where was not important, and neither was the when. The only point of importance was the fact itself; that they were leaving behind the pain and difficulties of the last several months. They were starting fresh. Beside him, Dean slept, his face contorted enough to tell Sam in sleep what he was unable to tell him in consciousness. Dean was still in pain.

He writhed unknowingly in his sleep, body shifting anxiously, hesitantly, as he attempted to find a more comfortable position that might serve to ease the stabbing pain that still consumed his body a week and a half after literally being shredded by the Pathuma. A small groan escaped Dean's lips, attesting to the fact that the pain was truly more than he could handle, and Sam winced in sympathy for the older man. He was only hurt so badly because he'd sacrificed himself for the younger hunter, and Sam was only too aware of that fact.

The sign up ahead caught Sam's eye and he slowed his speed just a little to read it, sighing gratefully as he determined it to be just what he needed. Eyes still on the road, Sam reached his right hand behind him and dug through the duffle, rifling for several seconds before his hand closed around the bottle of industrial strength pain killers that Dean had adamantly been refusing to take for the past three days, declaring himself fit and them unnecessary. The bottle found itself 'hidden in plain sight' in the dash console, just within Dean's sight, but where he might not realize they'd been planted.

Sam pulled the car off the road and parked with a jarring stop by the single pump of the old gas station, relying on the motion alone to wake his brother. He climbed from the car, no longer needing his canes but still unsteady on his slowly recovering legs, and eased himself around to the pump. His back remained purposefully turned, eyes scanning the wavering lines of the horizon that were skewed by the intense heat of the desert, awed at how far the earth seemed to stretch when there were no buildings to obscure the view.

Several minutes passed and the tank was nearly filled with gas before Sam heard the faint creak of the passenger door being opened and Dean stepped painfully from the car, alternating between stretching his stiff limbs and curling in on himself to protect the healing wounds.

"Sleeping beauty awakens," Sam announced flatly, more an observation than a jab.

But Dean didn't seem to notice the words in either context, instead stalking boorishly to the outhouse sitting kitty corner to the small convenience store, entering and slamming the door behind him.

Sam laughed to himself, oddly comforted by the fact that Dean seemed to have returned to his normal crabby self. He'd actually found himself a little unnerved the first few days following Dean's revelation of his journey. The man hadn't been himself; far too clingy, too needy. He'd practically epitomized the chick-flick moments that he usually worked so hard to avoid. And despite Sam's frequent thoughts to the contrary, he really didn't enjoy girly Dean. In fact, he was outright scared of him.

After paying for the gas and taking his own turn in the outhouse, Sam returned to the car, finding Dean already half asleep again. His eyes quickly shot to the console where he'd left the pills, relief filling him at the observation that the bottle had moved. An appraising look at Dean gave him the additional reassurance he required as he noted the elder was resting much more comfortably, breathing more deeply. The painkillers had been taken, and they were doing their job.

They were actually doing far beyond their job. No sooner had Dean returned to the car before his entire body seemed to triple in weight and a thick haze enveloped his head. But there was more than that, something far beyond the normal detachment that came with unnatural means of sleep. Dean felt a tug, a pull, grasping onto his mind and taking it far away from the present. He felt himself flying, soaring through a fast moving inter-dimensional chasm. It was pitch dark, save for the interspersed flashes of bright white light every now and then as he made his way through the swirling vortex until he found himself jolt to a stop, still hovering high in the air, but now barely moving. Dean looked around him, a vague thought that he should be terrified at the fact that he was literally floating several feet in the air, looking down at the horrific sight of a mangled silver Ford Mustang resting on its roof twenty feet down the embankment from where it had sliced through the guardrail just minutes before. A feeling of dread settled inside Dean as he realized what he was witnessing, but he was locked deep in his drug-induced slumber and there was no escaping the walk down faux memory lane.

Sirens wailed loudly as they neared the accident scene, invading Dean's hearing just as he realized this wasn't entirely a fake memory no more than it was a real one. It was simply an alternative memory, or rather alternative insight. He'd gotten so close to the other Dean's world, so close to the other family and friends, and the question of their fates had gnawed at him for so long that he was finally making a connection. Somehow, through his dream, Dean was being shown the alter Dean's outcome.

Watching anxiously, helplessly, Dean watched as the rescue crew pulled the five boys, his own double included, from the tangled mass of car. The scene was replayed in front of him exactly as the other Sam had described it, and Dean felt the hitch in his throat as he realized what was to come. Somewhere, somehow, he'd expected that his returning to the other world would right everything bad that had happened in both worlds. But it didn't, and if he knew about Sam's wish he would know why. Because this world was just as real as his own, and it was always meant to be. If their mother had lived, and they'd stayed in Lawrence; if their lives had taken a different path, this was exactly where Dean would have ended up.

Time sped up, covering days, weeks, months in a matter of minutes and Dean was able to see everything that his alter experienced. He watched in nervous anticipation as his family and friends all huddled anxiously at the bedside of alter Dean for the six and a half weeks that he remained comatose. He shared the fear as they wondered when, or even if he would wake up, despite the fact that Dean knew the outcome to that particular chapter. He watched happily, eagerly even, as his double slowly returned to consciousness, wondering if it had taken his own body so long to stir. It was three days of opening and closing eyes and barely squeezing fingers before alter Dean finally was awake enough to comprehend his surroundings.

He cried when he heard the news. Not Dean Dean, but alter Dean. But it was enough to make the observing Dean cringe, mentally slapping his alter for being such a baby. And it was only after he reminded himself of the hardened upbringing he'd had that he realized alter Dean was reacting normally. His own nonchalant reaction to the situation was what had truly been suspect, and he wondered why that in itself hadn't tipped the rest of the family off to an other worldly situation.

Alter Dean spent another two weeks in the hospital under doctor's orders, and in that time he got to know Laura. Watching over them, Dean cheered them on, although silently berating his double for how slow he seemed to be moving. But she was his nurse, and alter Dean followed the rules. He waited patiently, making it to the day he was released before slipping Laura a note with his phone number on it and asking her to call him while he was in rehab.

The rehab hospital kept alter Dean for an additional three months, teaching him everything he would need to know to face his new life, preparing him to live on his own. In that time, he continued to see Laura. It started off slow, a visit here and a phone call there, but by the time he was released to go home they had made their relationship official. A stab of jealously hit Dean square in the heart as he realized how, even under the most stressful of situations, alter Dean had managed more semblance of normality than he, himself, had ever managed. Friends and family had marched like ants into and out of alter Dean's room at the rehab hospital at all hours of the day and evening. Dean could count on one hand the number of people who cared enough about him to visit him if he ever ended up stuck in some hospital, but alter Dean had so many visitors Dean had lost count.

Less than a week out of rehab and Sam, Laura, and the rest of Dean's friends had completely taken control of his life. Every day was a new adventure; basketball games, bars, movies, even board games. There was never a dull moment; never a private moment. Alter Dean's parents continued to be as supportive and Cleaver-esque as they had been to Dean himself, and another pang of jealousy hit him.

One day Sam and their father surprised alter Dean with the adaptation of his precious Chevy Impala, giving it hand controls so he could get behind the wheel again. And he did. Immediately. Dean could almost feel the wind whipping through his hair as alter Dean took the car out on his first expedition in months, expertly cornering the car as though they had never been separated. The two were a part of each other.

Alter Dean proposed to Laura as they enjoyed a picnic lunch on a warm summer day less than a year after the accident and she said yes. They were married the next year with Sam standing up as the best man and five of alter Dean's friends serving as groomsmen. And nine months later, Laura gave birth to a baby boy.

xxx

Sam looked over at Dean, startled, as his brother woke up with a strangled gasp. It was obvious the elder hunter had been dreaming for the last hour, the persistent body shifts and mumbled words here and there tipping Sam off. But Dean hadn't seemed like he was in distress, so it surprised Sam when he came to with such alarming speed and panicked gasp.

It took Dean several minutes to catch his breath, several minutes to recover from the whirlwind picture show that he'd just been privy to. His connection to alter Dean's world was so great he'd been able to get a glimpse into how his double's life would go and he had no idea whether or not to be happy for alter Dean's happiness or feel sadness for what he was missing out on. He'd never been honest with himself or Sam, never told his brother just how much he wished their lives had taken a different path.

And then it struck him. The realization hit Dean like a ton of bricks, slapping him out of the remorse he felt for leaving behind what he desired most. He wanted his world; every lonely night, every frightening hunt, every single time he wished for his mother to be alive. He wanted it all - because it was _his_. This was _his _Sam. _His _Impala. _His _terrifying nightmare of a life. But it was all his. And despite the vast differences separating the two lives, Dean also realized they were inexplicably linked as well. Astronomically linked, some might say. The similarities, the important parts, the parts that made both worlds normal and abnormal all at the same time. They were all there if he just looked deep enough.

Both Dean's had handicaps. Alter Dean's physical handicap was just easier to see. Dean's handicap was emotional; he wore the burden of the hunt like a shield around his heart, locking out anything that tried to enter and weaken it. But Laura, both Laura's, had seen past the handicaps and loved the Dean's anyway. Laura didn't care about the burden Dean carried. She just cared about Dean.

And that fact led him to another realization. There was more than one way to have a normal life. More than one way to have a family. Sometimes you just had to skew the lines a little bit; you just had to squint to see the possibilities. Sam was family. He'd long ago taken on the task of giving enough love to equate father, mother, and brother, just as Dean had done for him, and he'd succeeded. But there was still room for more. There was room for Laura.

"You alright there?" Sam asked, glancing sideways at Dean. His brother had yet to fully wake up although his eyes were wide open, staring blankly ahead. His expression was unreadable; an odd combination of nervousness, remorse, and euphoria.

Dean blinked as Sam's voice broke through his trance, and he shook his head vigorously, an attempt at clearing the final cobwebs clinging to the edges of his mind. "Yeah," he replied hesitantly. And then more firmly, "Yeah. I'm fine. I really am."

His grin was genuine, directly complimenting the firmness in his voice. And then Dean slapped the console as he broke out in a deep, throaty laugh. "I'm fucking awesome," he added.

Sam couldn't hide his own skepticism as he watched Dean practically bouncing off the walls of the car. It totally threw him, messed with his own mind, and he looked around for some sign of the oddity that was making Dean...happy. His brother was actually _happy_. He'd seen Dean smile before, heard him laugh and make jokes, but there had always been some underlying strain to them, as though he was covering something up. This was true emotion, true happiness, and Sam had never seen that in his brother before.

"What's got you so wired?" came the tentative question.

Dean smiled again and he reached across the seat, his fingers settling in Sam's tangled mess of hair, tousling it like he used to when they were kids. "We have to turn around, Sammy," Dean announced matter-of-factly. "We've got to go back."

The car pulled off to the side of the road, and it sat, idling for several seconds as Sam contemplated whether or not to ask why. But somehow he knew that Dean would tell him soon, but in his own time.

They hadn't passed another vehicle in almost an hour, so Sam barely looked as he swung the car around, heading back the way they had come. Without asking he knew where 'back' was, but his suspicions were confirmed as Dean fished out his cell phone.

Four rings sounded before the other phone switched into voicemail mode, and Dean bounced anxiously as he waited, beginning to speak almost before the beep sounded on the other end. "Laura, baby, it's Dean. I just want you to know we're coming back. I'm coming back for you."

_OK, so that's officially the end. I hope it meets with your approval and I really hope it gives you the answers and outcomes you wanted. It took me a while to decide how to sum it all up, but_ _then it hit me and that was that. Thanks so much for reading, and please don't forget the final reviews. You guys rock. _


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